


Find Your Purpose

by Romiress



Series: Find Your Reality [1]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Addiction recovery, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is Not Okay, Good Boyfriend Bane (DCU), M/M, Morally Complex but Mostly Good Bane, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight, Suicidal Ideation in Early Chapters, drug and alcohol abuse, not secret ending compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: With the manor in flames, Bruce Wayne sets out into the world for a well deserved vacation. When he becomes separated from Alfred, Bruce finds himself trapped in a downward spiral he can't recover from.Or at least not without help, and help comes from the strangest of places.
Relationships: Bane/Bruce Wayne
Series: Find Your Reality [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946158
Comments: 22
Kudos: 63
Collections: DCU Rarepair Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OkayAristotle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/gifts).



> This is for OA, who will hopefully enjoy what a mess I've made. There's also a part two, so keep an eye out for that!

They leave as the mansion burns behind them, and Bruce feels like a part of him is left behind with it. The manor has always been his home, his safe harbor, his place to return to.

Now it's gone, collapsing under its own weight as the fire consumes it.

Gotham is enraptured by the fire, unable to stop themselves from watching, and that makes it that much easier for him and Alfred to slip away into the night. Things are already prepared, and they're out of the state long before dawn. When they stop, Bruce dyes his hair, changing the cut and disguising himself with prosthetics. There's less need for Alfred to do so, but he does so anyway out of an abundance of caution. When Alfred emerges from the hotel bathroom, he looks twenty years younger, full of energy and ready to go on an adventure.

It doesn't last.

For the first while, there's a level of excitement. Bruce hasn't had a chance to travel unburdened by responsibilities in a long time, and Alfred in even longer. They tour through the west of Europe, changing their appearances semi-regularly, and pass undetected with only minor issues. Eventually, they work their way north, crossing the channel in the the United Kingdom, and Alfred begins to show Bruce places he remembers. His childhood home. The park he spent his youth running circles around.

They slow down. They stay longer in each place, even if it's risky, and see more of the sights. The weight on Bruce's heart grows and grows, until he knows he has to ask.

"You want to stay," he says one evening over dinner, and Alfred doesn't insult him by pretending otherwise.

"I'm too old to travel like this."

Alfred's put on a brave face, but so much travel—so much walking and so many nights spend in less-than-stellar conditions—is wearing on him.

"I'll buy you a place out here," Bruce says. There's enough money stored up, secreted away for just such an occasion, that buying Alfred a small property wouldn't be difficult. "You can hold down the fort for when people stop looking and I can come home."

Bruce can't decide if he's lying to himself or not. If he ever settles down, the risk becomes almost exponentially greater. Moving around, swapping IDs, and changing his features will keep anyone from making a trail, but if he stays in one place, someone's eventually going to notice. Right then he's gone back to his natural hair color, but he's got a large bushy beard to hide most of his face.

"I think we both know that won't happen."

People will always be looking for him. Bruce has gone out of his way to avoid reading about Gotham, but it's impossible to completely ignore what's happening back at home. Gotham is in chaos. The only thing the media care about is getting to the end of every lead, digging up new kernels of information about Bruce and his life. He's seen Dick and Tim being interrogated over it, even though he tried not to. He's seen Gordon raked over the coals. Even months later, the public's appetite for more information hasn't gone down.

If anything, it's intensified.

It will be a long, long time before Bruce can settle down anywhere.

He buys a house, makes sure Alfred is settled in, and then he leaves. Alfred gives him a phone number to call, and extracts a promise from Bruce that he'll call every week to check in. He keeps to it as he works his way through central Europe, going east because it seems like as good a direction as any.

He lacks direction, and without Alfred, he's missing a lot more than that. He feels completely and utterly alone for the first time in a long while, and it weighs on him.

He wishes it didn't. He wishes he could stop thinking of what he's left behind. Dick and Tim, left to clean up his mess. Gordon, scrutinized and interrogated over whether or not he knows the truth.

Jason.

Bruce doesn't know what happened to him in the aftermath. Maybe he should have searched, but that seems impossible. Staying at Gotham would be too great a risk, and the farther he is from the city he dedicated his life too, the greater his odds of going undetected.

But the lack of focus bothers him, an impossible to ignore dagger buried in his side. He's spent his life with a _cause,_ and now that Gotham's thrown him away, he's lost that. He feels empty. He takes a cruise through the rivers of Europe, and gets off at a random stop, never returning to the ship. He wanders through markets and plazas and tries to bask in the architecture or the art or the food or _something._

He just wants to feel anything at all.

He calls Alfred, of course. Every week he makes a point to find a phone and call the old man on it, telling him about what he's seen and where he is and what he's doing.

He doesn't mean to lie to him. It isn't a conscious choice he makes at any point on his trip. But Alfred is so clearly worried for him, and Bruce doesn't want him to worry at all, so when Alfred starts getting a bit too wary, Bruce starts peppering in details that aren't quite true. Places he's never been. People he's never met. He lets Alfred believe that Bruce is doing what he should have done back in his twenties, touring the continent and making friends.

He isn't.

Bruce is slipping farther and father down, unable to keep his head above water.

He drinks to numb the hard edges of his feelings. It's easier to forget when he's drunk, and even easier to sleep than it's ever been. There's always a pub or a bar or a market selling alcohol nearby, and it's easy to move from place to place, following recommendation from people willing to pour him a drink.

The days begin to blur together. What happens on one day is no longer significantly different from what happens the next. He keeps it from Alfred, refusing to accept his pity.

Alfred, of course, catches on anyway.

"Master Drew," Alfred says, because that's the name Bruce is going by right then, "are you drunk? You're slurring your words."

"I had a few with dinner," Bruce says, making as much of a point as he can to _not_ slur any more in the conversation. "I'm fine. It's just me up in my room."

"I'm worried about you, you know."

Alfred has no reason to worry. Bruce has never give him even the faintest shred of evidence that there's anything to worry about, and yet Alfred's gone ahead and sniffed it out anyway.

"I know you do, Al. But you don't need to worry. I'm just fine."

Every call after that, Alfred makes a point of asking if he's been drinking. Bruce mostly lies, knowing that saying yes is only going to worry Alfred more.

"You should come back and visit so I can see you," Alfred insists one particularly long call, and for a moment Bruce so desperately wants to say yes. He wants to go back to Alfred. He never wants to leave. He needs something to hold onto, and Alfred is _family._

But he can't. It would put Alfred at risk, and he can't take the chance.

"I'm fine, Al. I'm seeing the sights. Just try not to be too jealous, alright? I'll get you a souvenir when I visit Milan tomorrow."

Alfred's frown is very nearly audible, and Bruce wraps the call up quickly. He isn't anywhere near Milan, and he can't remember where he told Alfred he was last week.

The final blow comes the very next week. Bruce retires to his hotel, three drinks into the night, and makes to call Alfred.

Only he can't find the number.

Alfred's number's been written on a notecard since Alfred first gave it to him, and it's _always_ in his inside shirt pocket.

Only it isn't.

Bruce's panic is overwhelming. He digs through every item he has in his possession in search of it and comes up empty, scraping back through the last week, trying to figure out where he might have lost it. In the end, his results are inconclusive and deeply worrying: he's pretty sure he threw up on a shirt a few nights ago. He thinks he might have abandoned that shirt, shoving it into the hotel trash can. The odds of the shirt still being around are slim, and he can't remember the name of the hotel either.

His head throbs.

He tries to call Alfred anyway. He's called the number week after week, and he should remember, but the person who picks up on the other end is most certainly not Alfred. He's mixed up a number somewhere, so he tries again, only that number isn't Alfred either.

He breaks down.

Alfred was his lifeline, his sole connection to the life he left behind, and now he's lost him.

And it's all his fault.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce isn't sliding downhill so much as he's walking off a cliff.

He knows it, too: knows that things are getting worse and worse, and yet he has no power to stop himself. He drinks heavily in the days after, trying different variations of the number he's sure is Alfred's and coming up empty. He debates going back to England, only that feels more like giving up than actually giving up does.

At some point, someone offers him something stronger, and Bruce takes them up on it. He shouldn't. He knows it's a bad idea, but he does it anyway.

His whole life is nothing but a string of bad ideas that keep on getting worse, and when someone mentions _Dick Grayson_ near him, he's happy to indulge himself in whatever anyone's willing to sell him.

After that, everything starts to smudge together. Without his weekly call to Alfred to keep time by, the days of the week stop mattering. Where he goes hasn't mattered since Alfred left, and without the call, what he's doing doesn't either.

He continues to fall.

At some point, he stops even moving himself, surrendering to the despair that is swallowing him. Nothing matters, and that includes him, so he stops caring. The drugs in his system dull everything, so even when someone hikes up his shirt and stabs him with a needle, he barely recognizes it. A part of his brain, dull and buried, is screaming at him that someone's trying to harvest his organs, but the rest of him decides it doesn't matter.

He's okay with that.

At least that way he'll be useful to someone.

He is adrift, unmoored from anything resembling reality. When someone grabs his face, turning it back and forth, it's little more than a minor inconvenience. When he's moved, it barely registers. He gets the impression that someone's trying to talk to him, but he can't bring himself to reply, simply curling up instead.

He's not sure when he got untied, and after that he's not sure when he was tied up in the first place.

He slips in and out of consciousness, ready for it to be over, only it doesn't stop.

He vomits at some point, and then vomits again. His headache gets worse. Everything _aches,_ and he curls in on himself harder until someone pries his arms away from his body to take a good look at him.

That hurts more. Everything hurts more, the sole reprieve coming when a hand brushes lightly against his face, the voice soft and indistinct.

The voice tells him he'll be alright, but Bruce loses the words almost immediately.

Then the ache sets in again. The agony seems to stretch on forever as Bruce twists in on himself. It's like everything inside of his body is racing to get out, and Bruce doesn't think he's ever been in so much agony.

Eventually, the worst of it ebbs. Bruce slowly, bit by bit, becomes more conscious of what's around him. Of the time that's passing. He still drifts in and out, but he's at least _aware_ that he's drifting in and out, which is more than he could say before. He knows he's lost weight. He knows he's been very sick. It seems to take a very long time for him to register anything beyond that.

There's an IV line in his arm, he recognizes. Someone's been giving him fluids, maybe, only the color looks wrong. It's not clear like it should be. Everything feels confused and indistinct, but he knows that he's hungry. He's sure he must have eaten, or he'd feel even more so, but right then... well, he can't quite sort out how his body is feeling.

Nothing really makes sense, and he has no sense of how long he's been there (or where he even is), but he _knows_ it must have been more than a few days.

At some point—Bruce isn't sure if it's the same day or not—he realizes there's a bowl of soup by his bed. It's cold, but he tries to eat it anyway. His arms are too skinny, the muscles degraded. Even lifting the bowl is too much, and he spills more than half the bowl onto himself before his shaking arms manage to raise it to his mouth.

Some of it gets into his mouth, but he drinks too quickly, choking it up after no more than a minute or two.

It's miserable.

He swims in and out of consciousness, dully noticing things that have changed each time. Someone has cleaned up the soup he spilled. Someone's changed his sheets. There's a new bowl of soup, which he makes another feeble attempt to drink, doing a bit better the second time around. He rarely wakes when people are around, either because they're quiet or because he's not awake enough to see them. At some point, the IV line becomes the clear fluid he's expecting, rather than the red he saw before.

Maybe he dreamed it.

Bruce is a mess, but he's doing better. He manages to stay awake longer, stretching his time awake in an attempt to encounter someone. The room isn't very large—really, it's a small bedroom with a bed and a small stool where his food is left—and there's very little to see, which makes staying awake harder than it should be.

He's just about to doze off when the door opens. Bruce lets his eyes drift shut, fighting to stay awake as he tries to... to something. Focusing is hard, but he _needs_ to focus, attempting to make use of the mind he'd have once described as _analytical._ Right then it feels like it's been soaked in molasses, barely able to process what's going on. Someone's entered the room. There's the smell of food. He's pretty sure it's just one person, but he can't even be sure of that much, and his head is _throbbing..._

"You are grimacing," a voice above him says, "and not doing a particularly good job of hiding that you are awake."

He should know. He should _immediately_ recognize the voice because it's so _familiar,_ but trying to remember is like hitting his own brain with a baseball bat and he lets out a small whine of pain before simply cracking an eye open.

Oh.

The man staring down at him towers over him, a broad wall of muscle that would be intimidating even if Bruce was in top condition. As he is, Bruce knows he doesn't stand a chance, which is why it's a good thing that Bane doesn't seem interested in snapping him in half. Instead, he has a small tray held in one hand, a bowl of what's probably soup on it, and an IV bag set just to the side of that.

Bruce squints up at him. His forehead is throbbing, and trying to process the simple fact that _Bane is there_ is a bit too much for him.

"Rest," Bane says, his tone allowing no room for argument. "You are not yet well enough to have this conversation."

Bane exchanges the IV bag and sets the soup down, and then he's gone, leaving Bruce to try and comprehend what even just happened. Bane. _Bane?_

Bane doesn't make sense. Bane's always been an enemy. Trying to remember when they parted ways hurts, but Bruce is fairly sure it was in Arkham City when Bruce destroyed the last of the Titan.

Which would mean revenge, only it's increasingly clear, even to Bruce's very bleary thinking, that Bane isn't out for revenge. If he was, he'd have had plenty of opportunity when Bruce was completely and utterly powerless. Bane could have done anything—killed him or tortured him or taken him apart—and Bruce wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing to stop him.

Realistically? He still can't. He's still weak, and if Bane wanted to hurt him, he could.

Bruce falls asleep trying to figure it out. When he wakes, he barely remembers that Bane was there at all, save for the presence of a new bowl of soup.

He improves in inches, not steps. He manages a whole hour (or he thinks it's an hour) sitting up, but it takes an active amount of concentration to do so. He drinks a whole bowl of soup, and manages to keep it down. The next time he wakes, there's small chunks in his soup, rather than the thin broth that had been there before. They're harder to keep down, but he manages anyway.

He sees Bane only occasionally. The other man never lingers, always straight to the point. When he removes the IV line, he does so without comment, apparently having decided Bruce is getting enough food in him to not need it. The soup starts coming with a bottle of water, that he refills regularly.

Bruce doesn't see anyone else, and as the worst of his exhaustion fades, that starts to weigh in him in a much different way.

"Am I a prisoner?"

Bane doesn't even stop what he's doing, placing the tray on the stool by Bruce's bed. Bruce hasn't managed to move out of it just yet, but he's tried, at the very least, resting his feet on the floor.

"No. I doubt you have the ability to leave on your own, however."

Bane is a very different man than Bruce remembers. Physically, he appears a great deal smaller, still tall, but a _human_ level of tall, rather than being the barely human _thing_ that Bruce had gotten used to seeing. Similarly, he's still big but no longer _bulging,_ and while Bruce can't tell for sure, he hasn't seen the pipes that used to run under Bane's neck, feeding venom to his brain. Either they've been buried under his skin, or they've simply been removed. If not for the mask, Bruce isn't even sure he'd have recognized Bane as Bane, and if Bruce is being entirely honest with himself, Bane actually looks fairly good. Healthier than Bruce can ever remember him being, and more... _in control._

Whether that's a good or bad thing remains to be seen.

Bruce starts counting the days, but it's slow going. The room doesn't have a window, so there's no way to tell time. He counts sleeps, but sometimes he wakes only for a few minutes, making tracking hard. He manages to get to his feet for a few seconds after four sleeps, and manages to cross to the far wall (leaning heavily against it for support) after five more.

Bane begins to mix up the meals, bringing him dry toast and other small snacks for Bruce to choke down. Food, though, it the least of Bruce's worries.

"I want to... to wash."

He smells. He knows he smells. Someone (Bane?) has obviously cleaned him up at some point, but he still smells. He doesn't want to know how long it's been since he washed, and he tries to hold his ground as Bane looks over him with a frown.

"You will fall."

"I'll be fine."

He tries to make himself sound certain, even if he's not, but eventually Bane grunts, gesturing for him to stand. Bruce wills his legs to hold, pressing his hand to the wall as he heads for the door, and Bane lets him pass without issue. Managing to do so while holding the sheet around him is challenging, but he manages... just barely.

It's the first time he's been out of the room he's come to think of as his in a long, long while. He guesses he's probably on Santa Prisca, simply because that's where Bane is supposed to be, but nothing in the hallway makes that clear. There are windows, set high in the wall to let in sunlight, but they're high enough he can't see out them as Bruce shuffles down the hall, Bane looming just behind him. He wants to be left alone, only he doesn't even know where the goddamn bathroom is, and he hasn't even made it to where the hallway turns before he's out of breath, exhausted beyond reason.

Bruce lets out a sound of protest when Bane scoops him up, but there's very little he can do. He hates how weak he feels, hates the fact that he's getting no say in what's happening around him. The hallways seem to rush past, his head swimming as he tries to track where they're going and what turns Bane is taking. They descend—he knows that much without a doubt—and ends in a small room that he thinks are probably intended for use as a public bath of sorts. There are a few pools that look almost natural, already filled with water, and Bane walks him to the farthest one, at least allowing him the dignity of getting in himself as he sets Bruce down _beside_ the pool.

"Wash," Bane instructs him.

Bruce isn't sure he's ever wanted anything more in his life. He discards the sheet he brought with him and inches into the warm water, sinking down to just below his neck, and lets out a groan of unmissable bliss. His entire body aches, and the water is a balm, letting his muscles (or what remains of them) relax as he sinks further down into the water.

"Not too far," Bane calls. "I would prefer if you did not drown."

Bruce doesn't care. Right then, drowning sounds fine so long as he gets to stay in the water. He knows he should be cleaning himself off, but that's far too much effort, and he's not willing to exert himself just yet.

"Why is that, exactly?" He asks, voice hardly more than a mumble, eyes closed. He knows Bane is nearby, and there's no putting it out of his mind. The fact that he's naked and Bane certainly _isn't,_ on the other hand, is a detail he prefers to avoid thinking about as much as possible.

"It would seem to me that it would be a waste to bring you all the way here and drag you through the worst of your recovery only for you to drown in a warmed spring."

Bruce cracks an eye open, but it's a pointless gesture. Bane's somewhere behind him, impossible to see right then, and even if he _was,_ Bruce isn't sure he could read him with the mask.

"I meant why you're doing all this."

It's the mystery to end all mysteries. Why would Bane, who has only ever been an enemy to him, help him? And it's not a casual, spur of the moment kind of help, either. Bruce has no sense of how long he's been there, but he's sure it's been more than a few weeks at least. That sort of help doesn't come cheap, and it's difficult to reconcile with the source of that help being Bane.

Bane's answer does not come quickly. In fact, it takes so long for him to answer that Bruce is in the midst of nodding off when Bane finally speaks.

"You were my enemy once, and even if there was nothing honorable about our battles, you struck me as a man of.... dignity. The position I found you in was beneath you, and I knew that if you had found me in such a position, you would have intervened."

Bruce is having a hard time even processing what _the position I found you in_ is supposed to mean. His desire to interrogate Bane for a better understanding of his situation is warring with his desire to sleep, but he tries to stay awake just the same.

"Don't know what you mean," he mumbles.

Bane doesn't answer, and Bruce drifts off despite his attempts to remain awake.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Bruce comes to, he's back in his bed.

The sheets have been changed, he's been dried off, and when he checks he discovers he's also wearing underwear. It affords him a tiny shred of dignity, but considering his situation, he's not sure it counts for much.

He needs to know more about the situation.

He eats the food left on the side table—some soft vegetables and water—and then opts to do something stupid.

Mentally, Bruce knows he's a step short of complete disaster. He refuses to think about why he's there, or give any thought to the steps he took that lead him to his current situation. It's not that he can't, it's that he _won't,_ and every time he comes even mildly close, he simply starts to shut down.

Better not to think of Alfred as he eats the poorly prepared vegetables. Better not to think of Barbara as his legs shake under him. Better not to think of Tim as he rubs his hand over his face, noting that it's stubble rather than a full beard.

Better not to think of anyone.

Bruce forces himself out of bed, his legs trembling below him. He shouldn't be leaving the bed, not after his legs failed him before, but he _has_ to. He has to know.

There's no real attempt at sneaking, not when standing up is using all his energy, but it doesn't really matter. The hallway outside his room is empty, and now that Bruce is a bit more aware, he takes the time to observe. The walls are stone, rough and worn looking. An older building, probably. Well kept, despite that. He glances along the long hall, the left side clearly an outer wall with high set windows, and the right side set with evenly spaced doors, and realizes what he's probably looking at: a prison. The doors all have old locks on them, even if none seem to be engaged, and the size of the quarters only convinces him even more that his guess is correct.

Or what it used to be. He seems to be the only occupant, and when he dares checking another room, he finds it empty. He doesn't bother checking the rest, heading for the end of the hallway, and he makes it all the way there with the heavy support of the wall.

That's where his luck runs out.

There's a guard posted just around the corner, although he's obviously not at attention or anything like that. He's leaning against the wall thumbing through a book when Bruce rounds a corner, and the sound of Bruce's arrival causes his eyes to flick up, spotting Bruce.

He drops his book, snapping to attention. He's young—not even as old as Dick—and gangly looking. New to... to _whatever it is_ Bane is doing, and apparently assigned to be Bruce's guard since even as young and untrained as he is, Bruce is absolutely no threat to him.

 _"You can't be here,"_ the boy says in Spanish. _"You need to go back to your room."_

Bruce is trying to figure out which specific area he's dealing with (he's guessing Santa Prisca, but more information is better), when the guard takes his silence for confusion.

"You need to go back to your room," he repeats in English.

Bruce grunts at him.

 _"I know Spanish,"_ he replies, because his brain isn't so foggy he can't manage that. _"I'm not going back to my room. I want to go outside."_

_"Bane said you weren't well, and had to stay in your room."_

_"Bane isn't here."_ If there's one thing Bruce is really good at, it's browbeating people into doing things they probably shouldn't. _"I need fresh air. I've been in the room too long."_

He's still propping himself up against the wall, and it helps him sell the story... even if he doesn't think he could actually stand on his own.

_"I couldn't run if I wanted to. You'll have to help me to the door."_

His browbeating works, and his guard opts to _escort_ Bruce along. He doesn't touch him, hovering nearby, but Bruce feels a great deal stronger than he did before, and so long as he doesn't move quickly, he can at least manage.

The guard seems to get the idea that Bruce has no idea where he's going, because he tentatively takes the lead. Despite Bruce's concerns, he doesn't actually have far to go. They turn two quick corners, head through a door (Bruce thinks he sees other people down the hall, but doesn't stop to look), and then they're out, stepping out onto bare earth.

There's not much of a view. They're deep in a forest, and tipping his head back, Bruce can barely see patches of blue sky peeking through the brush. He can't see more than ten feet in either direction before he's blocked, which leaves him with a _very_ limited understanding of where he is. The Santa Priscan jungle? Too much of that is based on guesswork for Bruce to be happy with things, and he cranes his neck, still leaning against the door frame, searching for... something. He desperately wants an epiphany, some kind of glorious realization as to what he's dealing with, and he isn't getting one.

"Where were you planning to go, exactly?" Bane asks from behind him, and the only reason Bruce doesn't jump is because he's too exhausted to move so much at once.

"Nowhere. I'm not stupid enough to go... limping off into the jungle."

Not even walking off into the jungle. He glances behind them to find the guard is gone, likely shooed away by Bane, who places one large hand on Bruce's shoulder and steers him back inside.

"You are not yet well," Bane says simply. "You will need more time to recover."

Bruce manages a snarl, but that's all he can manage. His eyes are burning, and it takes him far too long to realize that there are tears forming at the edges.

He's frustrated, and everything hurts, and there is, without a doubt, _nothing._

His life is empty. He's lost everyone close to him, he's lost the city he's always called his own, and whatever dignity he had before has gone with it. He's fallen apart, and he doesn't see a way of putting the pieces back together as his legs tremble under him, threatening to collapse at any second.

"You are stronger than this," Bane says simply, and that's too much.

Bruce breaks down. He _isn't_ stronger than this, and the last few _weeks_ (months?) only prove that. He's failed on every conceivably level, and the last thing he deserves is the kindness of a man who has never been more than an enemy.

He doesn't understand anything.

"Once upon a time I considered you an enemy of mine. I feared the Bat I saw in my dreams, and so I feared you. I was a fool, then. I did not understand. There is nothing to be afraid of from the Batman, because the Batman does not cause harm... he exists to prevent it. So long as I walked a just path, I would have nothing to fear from him."

"I'm not him." Bruce voice cracks midway through the words, but he makes himself say them anyway. "I stopped being Batman when I left Gotham."

Bane laughs. It's a deep, hearty sort of laugh that actually shakes Bruce simply with the force of it. Bruce's face burns with embarrassment, unsure of if he's being laughed at or not. It seems like it is, but... he can't figure out _why._

 _"Is that what you believe?"_ Bane starts in Spanish, before reverting to English. "You are still Batman. You are as much Batman as you are Bruce Wayne, and nothing will change that."

"Gotham—" Bruce croaks out, earning another laugh from Bane.

"Gotham needed Batman. Batman does not need Gotham. To fight for the innocent, to right many wrongs... these things do not begin and end in Gotham. Your dedication to your home is admirable, but it is not worth your sanity. You cannot return home, but that does not mean you must give up who you are."

Bruce curls inward, and Bane moves his hand down, helping support Bruce as he turns him, half pushing and half pulling Bruce along towards his room.

"You need to rest," he insists. "We can talk when you are feeling better."

Bane is nothing if not a man of his word. He leaves Bruce in his room to rest (and he desperately needs it), but when he returns (for dinner?), he doesn't leave the way he normally does. Instead, he lets Bruce take the tray into his lap and sits his bulk down on the small stool that usually holds Bruce's food to speak.

Bane on such a tiny stool is downright _comical,_ and manages to at least get Bruce to smile, even if he doesn't quite feel like laughing.

"Ask your questions," Bane says simply. "I am sure you have many."

"Where am I?"

Santa Prisca, most likely, but it's a nice softball question to see how much detail Bane is willing to give him.

"My base in Santa Prisca," Bane confirms. "An old fort in the hills that has been long abandoned. The Santa Priscan government knows that I am here, but so long as I keep the cartels out of the country, they will not bother me."

"Until you bother them," Bruce grunts, and Bane offers a smile.

"Yes. Until my forces are ready, and I crack the government over my knee for what they have done to this country. The cartels are only the first step."

Well, that's more like the Bane he's used to.

"And the people?"

"The people have been exploited for years, and the government does nothing about it. They tolerate me destroying the cartels because they believe it shifts the balance of power towards them. The people will have their freedom in time."

Bruce offers a nod, taking a moment to think. His head isn't throbbing quite so badly, so he ventures, however tentatively, into his recent history.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three weeks," Bane answers immediately, "but you were with us a week before that as we returned to Santa Prisca."

Bruce doesn't remember that. He _should_ remember being flown in (boated in?), and he simply can't. It's nothing but a smudge in his memory, and he shakes his head.

"You found me?"

"It is not enough to fight the cartels on Santa Prisca alone. At times, I must leave the island to... _resolve the problem_ elsewhere. You were in one of their pens when I killed them. I believe they intended to harvest you for organs, oblivious to who you were."

It isn't far off what he guessed, but hearing it is painful. He averts his eyes, and Bane clicks his tongue.

"They were dealt with, but even with your strength, I doubted you would be able to recover on your own. You would need both time and help to recover, so I brought you here to do so." 

The question that's been weighing on Bruce's mind bubbles to the surface before he can stop it.

"Why is it just you? Don't you have better things to do than deal with me?"

It's an insulting way to say it, but he's said it anyway, and there's no taking it back. He expects anger, or maybe, considering that he's talking to Bane, more laughter, but instead he gets somber seriousness, Bane's shoulders hunching forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees.

"I decided it would be best if others did not see you. When I was at my worst, every person who saw me was like a knife in my belly. While I could not say that you would feel the same way, I believed it would be better for your recovery if you did not have to look at strangers who had seen you at your worst."

It takes a while for Bane's meaning to sink in, for him to really _understand._ The idea that he'd been _at his worst_ feels like an entirely new concept, and yet at the same time it's undeniably the truth. He _was_ at his worst. There was nowhere to go but up. He's struggling with the realization that he is, in fact, _up,_ but it's hard to deny it at the same time.

"...Thank you."

He's not sure there are enough words to really express how he feels, but those two feel like a start. Bane has reached down into the gutter and dragged him out, and even if Bruce hasn't _quite_ grasped the whole of it, he still knows enough to know that he owes Bane a great deal.

"You would have done the same," Bane says without an ounce of hesitation. "Do you remember when we first met? The first night."

"I remember you trying to kill me."

"Later," Bane says with a short laugh. "With the clown."

Remembering that far back is a struggle, but Bruce does it anyway.

"He had an elaborate death-trap where I had to kill him, or else he'd kill... Gordon?"

"Or else he would die himself," Bane corrects. "He knew then that you would not tolerate taking the life of another."

Bruce is having a hard time seeing how any of that is relevant, so he simply squints at Bane until he continues.

"You could simply have killed me. It would have been your right, and it would have saved the life of someone who was only trying to help. Instead, you found a way around it. You took my life... and then you gave it back."

"I'm fairly sure you were angry at me for it at the time."

"I was a fool at the time. Obsessed with a dream I only half remembered."

"The Bat. You mentioned that once."

Bane nods, a deeply solemn gesture for someone so big.

"It was a child's nightmare and nothing more. I gave it power over me, and lost much as a result. Santa Prisca would be far better off if I had not chased you so far. If I had stayed here, I could have helped my people. Instead, I chased a child's fantasy across the world, fighting someone who did not need to be fought. I allowed myself to become a slave to chemicals. I believed that because I had changed the Venom which had once enslaved me that I had become the master, and I was a fool for having thought as much."

Bruce's eyes wander across Bane's neck. Facing him dead on, there's no question the pipes have been removed. Small divots are present where the pipes used to connect, and that's enough to give Bruce the confidence he needs to just ask.

"You aren't using anymore."

"You destroyed what remained of the Titan. The loss of it nearly killed me, and yet still I live. I returned to Santa Prisca, and realized that I could not continue my life as it was. I would have to change."

Bane reaches up, one large finger tapping the divots Bruce was only just staring at.

"I sought a way to purge the remains of Titan from my body. It was a slow, painful process, and yet it has brought me many advantages. The chemical I developed is adaptable. Many of the men who have joined my cause were once slaves to Venom or one of its variants as I was. With my own serum—"

Bruce cracks a smile, and dares to interrupt.

"Please tell me you're calling it Antivenom."

Bane pauses for a moment, stunned, and then lets out a deep, booming laugh.

"I had not given it any thought, but it's as good a name as any. Antivenom has done wonders. Many on Santa Prisca turn to Venom as a solution to their problems, but once you have begun taking it, you are beholden to the cartels who supply it. While not as effective against other chemicals, it does have some effectiveness in minimizing the withdrawal side effects."

"That was what you put into me," Bruce realizes. "The... red fluid."

Bane nods, reaching out to tap Bruce's arm where the IV line once lay.

"Your physical state was poor. The Antivenom simply helped minimize some of the worse side effects, allowing you to pull through on your own."

Bruce wants to scoff at _on your own,_ because he doesn't feel like he's done much at all, but he understands the sentiment.

"So I'm recovering. What then?"

Bane doesn't answer right away. He seems to consider the question, going out of his way to give it the appropriate level of thought.

"Then it will be up to you. When you are better, you will be able to choose."

Bruce wishes it were that easy.


	4. Chapter 4

Recovery is not magic.

Bruce has put his body through the wringer, and it makes sure he remembers that every step of the way. His muscles scream in protest if he so much as gets out of bed, but he doesn't allow that to stop him from doing it, either.

He needs to get better. He needs to be stronger. The isolation—the lack of anything other than him and Bane—is getting to him.

Every day he wakes. He eats the food that's been provided. He rubs blood back into his muscles, goes through his stretches, and tries to excercise. When he's too tired to continue, he falls back into bed, sleeping until lunch.

Bane eats lunch with him on most days, and makes conversation as he does. He tells Bruce, in broad strokes, how his campaign is progressing. He tells him about new recruits, about successes and failures. Sometimes he even presents problems to Bruce, and every time leaves Bruce wondering if they're real.

Are the stories real? Are the quests? Or are they simply tests to see how mentally together Bruce is, how much he's recovered?

Even if he's improving physically—managing a trip to the baths without having to stop—his mental state is something else entirely. He's still along, almost completely isolated. Bane, apparently sensing how tenuous Bruce's mental health is, brings him books to occupy his time. Many of them are ones he's read before—Bane _must_ know he's read the Art of War—but he reads them anyway, desperate for mental stimulation.

"You are well enough," Bane says one day over lunch. "You could eat with the men, if you'd like."

"Do they know who I am?"

Bane shakes his head, and Bruce finds himself momentarily distracted by the gesture. The Bane he was so used to was a brute, force over finesse, and the man in front of him is anything but. He's still strong—Bruce has no doubt, considering that Bane could carry him without issue—but there's a level of precision in his movements now that wasn't there before.

It's the difference between punching through a wall and snatching a fly from the air.

"No," Bane confirms. "Many of the men abandon their old names when they join us. Many of them have done things they are ashamed of. Armadillo has no history to tie him down. Jeremías does. So they shed their old names. You could easily do the same."

"They'll know I'm an outsider."

Even if he's fluent, he can't match their accent well enough to pass as someone from Santa Prisca. They'll know, without a doubt, that he's from elsewhere.

"Then make up a story. I am certain you can come up with something convincing enough, and no one will ask too many questions. Everyone here has their secrets. They will not dig into yours if you do not make them particularly interesting."

Bane is right. That evening, Bruce dresses in a new set of clothes that Bane has bought him and follows his directions down to the kitchens. Bane does not accompany him, but even so Bruce can't help but feel his presence just the same. He's handed a plate of food without so much as a sideways glance, and then shuffled into a large open room that's serving as the dining hall.

There are dozens of men there, many of them armed, but Bruce is surprised to find it's not _just_ men. There are women there, just as armed and dangerous looking, but also people Bruce wouldn't expect to find in a militia. There are elderly men and women mixed in, and children as well, far too young to possibly be part of anything. Despite his initial surprise, a second look confirms what should have been obvious: many of the outliers he's seeing are _families,_ tight knit groups having dinner together.

Someone smacks Bruce on the back, and he wheezes, only just catching himself. It's a man he doesn't recognize, several years older than him with a face that makes it clear he's had a rough life. His head's shaved, and a thin scar runs from his cheek up through his eyebrow, only just missing his eye. There's a tattoo across the lower part of his face, the pattern like a wing that's been fanned out. Feathers, maybe.

A second glance convinces Bruce that he must know the man, but his head's still swimming.

"Come, sit."

It's not quite an order and not quite a request, but Bruce goes along with it anyway, taking a seat at one of the benches as the man sits across from him. Others filter over, the dynamics becoming clear quickly enough. The man with the tattoo is popular, at the very least, and likely holds some kind of high rank within the army Bane's made for himself.

"Eat. You'll need your strength."

Bruce eats. Talking seems a bit beyond him, and the longer he can drag things out before revealing that he's an outsider, the better.

"This is Bane's project?" A man asks as he settles in beside Bruce, looking him over with an appraising eye. "He doesn't seem like much."

"He's recovering," the man with the tattoo says. "Once upon a time, he fought Bane and won, so you should show him some respect."

Absolutely _no one_ looks convinced by that, and Bruce can't blame them. He's undersized, sickly looking, and the act of holding his head up while he eats is straining him to his limit. He won't be beating Bane anytime soon. Maybe not ever.

"He probably doesn't even speak Spanish," someone comments, and there's a small round of laughter. Bruce realizes they've mistaken his look of focus for one of confusion, and he debates whether or not to correct them. There are benefits to playing dumb and letting people talk around him, but there are also cons. It really just depends on what he wants out of the interaction, and the fact is that Bruce doesn't have the slightest idea.

"Bane's wasting his time with him," someone else says. The head of things—the man with the tattoo who seems to have some kind of authority in the group—says nothing, and Bruce wonders if he set the whole thing up as some kind of a test, or if he's simply taking advantage of the situation to observe.

Bruce can't blame him either way: it's the exact sort of thing he'd be doing in his position.

"Too busy playing nurse to a sick man to be as present as we'd like," someone says, and several eyes shift to the tattooed man. Bruce doesn't believe it's a planned test any longer, but he _does_ think the man's observing him. Maybe he doesn't even plan to defend Bruce. Maybe he's convinced Bruce needs to defend himself.

Without any _physical_ ability to defend himself, Bruce opts to lob a metaphorical bomb into the conversation.

"I didn't realize Bane's opinion counted for so little," Bruce says in perfect, if incorrectly accented Spanish. There's a stunned silence, likely at the fact that he spoke at all, and then someone—not any of the people verbally jabbing at him—bursts into laughter and the tension dissipates.

Apparently he's said the right thing, but Bruce stays quiet as conversations pick up around him. Only once everyone else has moved on does the man before him speak, his voice measured... and familiar.

Bruce has _definitely_ met him before.

"You made a good choice. Everyone here owns Bane a great deal, and while they'll grumble, no one is going to question his choices. If he believes you're worth his time, they'll accept that."

His use of _they_ feels pointed.

"But not you," Bruce counters, and the man offers him a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"No. Not me. I stay at Bane's side because he has earned my loyalty, but he knows I'm my own man. When Bane lost himself to his addiction, I left. He remembers that."

"And he hasn't forgiven you?"

The tattooed man laughs.

"And he's thankful for it. Bane needs people who will tell him when he's being a fool, not people who will agree with his every choice. We discussed you before he ever brought you into the base, and I understand his reasoning, even if I don't agree."

Bruce quirks an eyebrow, and the tattooed man elaborates in a particularly blunt tone.

"Your presence here could bring attention that none of us want. He believes that one day you'll be a great man again, and that spending time to rescue you will be worth it."

"To help your cause." Bruce isn't sure what he feels about that. The idea that he might be _useful_ to Bane makes him feel... conflicted. He should be thankful. Bane's saved his life several times over by that point, and yet...

Well, Bane's cause isn't his own.

"Something like that," the man agrees, and then cocks his head to the side, eyes dancing up and down Bruce's face. "You don't remember me."

Bruce's sure that the blush is visible even under his beard.

"No," he's forced to admit. "You seem familiar."

"We met in My Alibi. You intended to send me to prison, but Bane intervened."

Ah. _Ah._

"You're Bird," Bruce says, the name coming easy with that bit of context. He remembers him: one of Bane's men. A Lieutenant. It gives Bruce plenty of context for the situation: Bird's been with Bane for more than ten years, and he's apparently close enough to his boss to be privy to Bruce's identity.

"Correct. And you should pick a new name. Something people can call you."

Something that isn't _Bruce Wayne,_ he means.

"I... don't have anything in mind."

He's given very little thought to anything, really. He doesn't know if he's staying. He doesn't know what his options are. What else is there, really? Where could he even go?

He's no longer drowning, but he's still adrift.

"Boon, then."

Bruce chokes on his food and has to take a moment to recover himself, sputtering just the same.

_"Boon?"_

"As good a name as any," Bird observes. "It's something to call you, and suits your purpose well enough."

Bruce doesn't ask for elaboration, because he knows exactly what Bird means. It's becoming increasingly obvious that he's there because Bane is hoping Bruce will join him, and he has absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Bane might have saved him, but he isn't going to betray his principles like that, and it's alarming to Bruce that Bane would ever think that he _would_.

He's going to have to talk to Bane, and Bruce isn't looking forward to it.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce doesn't get a chance to talk to Bane until the following day, when Bane stops by his room to drop off a new book. Bruce is struggling through push-ups when he arrives, and very nearly misses his chance to talk as he struggles to catch his breath.

"We need to talk," he blurts, and Bane settles in, letting Bruce recover his breath and return to sitting on the edge of the bed before he reaches out, offering the book rather than simply setting it down.

Bruce's room is still much the same as it was when he first woke up, but physically he's changed, and he's sure that it's as obvious to Bane as it is to him. Beyond that he now has actual clothes, simply handmade things that don't fit quite right, he's also starting to regain some of the weight he lost. He's still a far cry from what he was at his peak, but he's still _improving._

He looks almost normal.

"And what it is it that you wish to talk about?"

Bruce prepares himself, mentally, for what is to come. It's possible that Bane will react badly to being told _no._ It's possible he'll be cut off from the support he's been receiving. Even so, he's not willing to pretend. He won't _play along._

If Bane's going to throw him out for refusing to join his cause, then it would have happened one way or another.

"It's about what happens after I'm better," Bruce says. His hands ball into fists as he prepares himself for a fight that he has no chance of winning. He'll go down fighting either way, if it comes to that.

He hopes it doesn't.

"Oh?" Bane doesn't offer anything else, just acknowledges the line of conversation and waits for Bruce to say his piece. Bruce isn't sure if that's for better or worse, but he has no choice but to carry on.

"When I'm better—physically, emotionally, whatever—I'm not going to fight for you. I won't be your weapon."

Bane's gaze is steady, almost unblinking.

"Of course not."

 _That_ catches Bruce off guard. He'd been certain Bane had intended for Bruce to join him, and he'd gotten the impression that Bird thought so as well. Only Bane's so matter of fact about that _not_ being the case he's... well, he has no idea what to say. Bruce just stares up at him for a moment, blinking stupidly as he tries to figure out what even to say. 'Oh, sorry about the confusion'?

"There is no need for you to fight for me. I am, if nothing else, a man who can fight his own."

Bane can certainly do _that._ Even if he's nowhere near the levels he was at when he was addicted to Titan (or even to Venom), he's still extremely strong—probably a match for Bruce at his prime. There's something ironic about the fact that Bruce isn't entirely sure he could even have beaten Bane as he is now, but could easily beat him when Bane was stronger.

His addiction really was his weakness, after all.

"I... assumed that was your intention," Bruce says when Bane doesn't continue. "I assumed all of this was to get me ready again to... to I don't know. To take up your cause. To go out into Santa Prisca and fight the cartels for you."

"Oh no," Bane says, and there's something in his smile that tells Bruce that he's missed something about the conversation. "Not for me. You were never the sort of person who would do that. You are not the kind of man who would bow your head and take orders and instructions. Your independence is obvious, and it has always been clear to me that you would lead yourself. Even so... well, you are who you are. You put on your armor and went out into the city not for your own purposes, but to help others. I will not pretend that you doing so here would not benefit me, but my intentions are far less nefarious than you imagine."

Bruce's brain is like an old clock whose gears refuse to turn. They're covered in rust, neglected from months (longer?) of disuse. It feels like a victory when the gears turn at all, and when they catch? A miracle.

"You _did_ want me to join you," Bruce splutters after a moment, the realization hitting him like a truck.

Bane lets out a laugh that makes Bruce feel foolish, and then nods, holding out his hand. Bruce doesn't take it, staring for a moment, and when Bane realizes as much, he drops it.

"Perhaps I should be more direct while you recover. No, I do not wish for you to join my army. Having you as one of my men would be a waste of your talents. I have others who can take my orders, after all."

"But you _do_ want something from me," Bruce says, and Bane's smile is a _yes_ even before he opens his mouth. He _does_ want something.

"I want you to be the person you were before. You were a great man, the sort of person who stood tall even in the face of great trials. You have fallen from those heights, but if you desire it, I know that nothing would stop you from returning to that."

Bane's choice of words strikes him as purposeful, the _if you desire it_ sticking out like it's been painted neon green. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to miss.

"You don't think I want to go back to it."

Bruce doesn't know if Bane is right or not. He's purposefully avoided that kind of self reflection, intentionally avoided thinking about the future beyond a day or so. He doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't know what he should be doing. It's hard enough to work out what he'll be doing the next day—months ahead is simply too much.

Bruce simply doesn't know who he is anymore, and the realization is so raw and painful that he can't bring himself to even acknowledge it.

"I think you have lost who you are." Bane's voice is quieter than it normally is, barely above a whisper, and yet it still feels too loud. Bruce wants to curl up and stop thinking at all, only Bane isn't going to let him. "You tied your identity to what you did for Gotham so strongly that when Gotham was torn away from you, a part of who you were went with it. But you do not need Gotham to be who you are. Your principles—the parts that make you who you are—are entirely separate from _where_ you are."

Nothing is wrong in what Bane is saying, and yet it hurts anyway. Bruce feels an almost instinctive desire to turn away, and he very nearly does, only just managing to hold his position, his eyes dipped down to stare at Bane's neck rather than meeting his eyes.

"You are a man who fights to protect innocent people. Where you are does not matter. What you are wearing does not matter. What matters is _why_ you do the things you do. _That_ is the core of who you are. I will not pretend my reasons for rescuing you were entirely altruistic. Certainly, some of it was a sympathy for our shared misery. Some of it was the hope that when you found your place in the world again, it would be the innocent people here in Santa Prisca you would choose to help."

"And the rest?"

Bruce isn't sure what compels him to ask. Both of the reasons Bane has given him are perfectly valid reasons. There's nothing that guarantees there is a third reason.

And yet, somehow, he knows there is. He _knows_ there's a third reason, an answer Bane has yet to vocalize.

"You were, as I have said before, a great man once," Bane says. "I would like to see you return to that."

Bruce narrows his eyes, trying to wrap his head around what Bane is saying. It sounds... well, if it were anyone else, Bruce could potentially understand, but Bane? It feels very... friendly.

"Ah, because you're _invested_ in my recovery," Bruce retorts, regretting it the moment the words are out of his mouth. He can't take them back, but he can, maybe, make them better. "I didn't mean it the way it came out. You've been... you've been nothing but a gracious host." Even that doesn't sound strong enough, and Bruce trips over himself verbally trying to make it sound better. "I owe you my life."

Bane waves his hand, a near universal _think nothing of it_ gesture. He doesn't seem bothered by Bruce's skepticism, treating it as if the entire conversation was one he expected to have at some point or another.

Probably he did. He knows Bruce well enough to know he's a skeptic at heart, wary of any sort of offer, and doubly wary of something like _this,_ which is too good to be true by miles.

"I realize I have given you little reason to trust me. You are here because you have had, up to this point, no other choice. It must rankle you, having so little say in your own fate."

"You've also given me no reason _not_ to trust you. Setting aside our history—" Bruce thinks it'd be terribly hypocritical of him to hold the things Bane's done against him when Bane isn't holding the number of time Bruce's kicked him in the face against _him._ "—You've done nothing but help. You saved my life, you've spent a great deal of your time and energy helping me recover... even this. You don't _need_ to sit down and talk through all this with me, and yet you are anyway."

"I can imagine the sort of trouble you would get up to if you were simply confined without explanation," Bane says with a short laugh. "If sitting with you and explaining your situation will ensure you don't choke out one of my guards before escaping into the jungle, I would consider it a small price to pay. It would be a shame to have spent so much time bringing you back to health only to have you eaten by the wildlife."

"You've overestimating my fitness," Bruce grunts, his eyes running over his arms. Still too skinny. Still nowhere near ready to fight. "I don't think I could choke out anyone right now."

"You underestimate yourself. Now that you can leave your room, I think you'll begin to improve in leaps and bounds. Explore. Learn your way around."

Bruce isn't quite committed to the idea, but there's no harm in trying, and when he does, he proves Bane right: having something to work towards makes his recovery that much easier, and each day he goes farther and farther from his room, pushing himself to memorize his way around. Bane's men see him coming and going, but none of them bother him, giving him a wide berth as he limps his way through the base, learning the ins and outs.

There are a lot to learn. The base was clearly not constructed recently, and there are signs of what the building used to be, little hints that build up with every new corner Bruce finds himself turning.

It's Bird who gives him the answer he's looking for. Bruce is squinting down into a hole in the floor, trying to figure out what he's even looking at, when the man clears his throat, drawing Bruce's attention.

Bruce glances up at him, and then back down to the hole. It's so _central_ to the entire building that Bruce is sure it must be important, but as far as he can tell it just leads to a musty hole in the ground.

"This was used for something," he observes, and Bird laughs under his breath.

"It was used for cruelty. If you needed to punish someone, you'd lower them into the cave below and leave him there. The shape of the cave amplifies any sound he makes so that the other workers can hear his cries for help."

Bruce grimaces and makes himself stand, still staring down at the hole. It's hard to imagine a person fitting through it, and yet he doesn't doubt Bird's version of events at all.

"You said workers, but that isn't what they were, is it?"

Bird's lack of a mask makes him much easier to read than Bane is, the little twitch at the corner of his mouth telling Bruce all that he needs to know.

"You're no fool. You know what sort of place this was, obviously."

"I know when it dates to," Bruce agrees. "There are... signs. The quarters you won't use that have bunks so small you can barely fit a person in them were what tipped me off."

He expects Bird to confirm, but he doesn't bother, leaving Bruce to do it for him.

"This place was owned by slavers. That's why it's been abandoned, hasn't it?"

"You're so smart, and yet so naive. No, it was abandoned because it was too far from the nearest port, and the soil was over-farmed. Greed drove them to abandon this place, but it's been our gain and their loss. The fort needed only minor repairs, and it's easily defensible."

Bruce frowns and looks away. It's an awful place, the sort of place that should have been left to rot, or maybe taken apart stone by stone until nothing remained. He's forced to console himself with the fact that some good is coming of it, at least.

"You seem like you want something," Bruce points out, because he's sure Bird wouldn't have come to him without a reason. It's not as if the man's been avoiding him or anything, but it's obvious to Bruce that Bird's been told to _observe,_ not _interact._

"What do you plan to do, when you're better?"

Bird's cutting straight to the point, a fact which Bruce is immensely thankful for. He doesn't have the energy for beating around the bush any longer.

"I try not to think that far ahead," Bruce admits. "So it would depend." It's obvious to him what Bird is thinking, but he wants Bird to actually _say it,_ so he forces the issue. "Why?"

"I believe your presence here will harm Bane whether you intend to or not. If you don't plan to stay anyway, I'll be happy to see you off. You're well enough to walk around the base without issue, and that means you're well enough to leave."

Bird wants him out, ostensibly for Bane's own good. It's also painfully clear to Bruce that Bane doesn't know about the conversation they're having: it doesn't fit how he's been acting, and Bird's concern for Bane is obvious in the way he's holding himself.

"I have no intention of harming your boss."

"Bane is a boss to them, but to me he's like family. We escaped Peña Duro together. Others may come and go, but so long as Bane needs me, I'll be here for him."

"Which is why you're protective," Bruce agrees, "but I genuinely don't intend to harm him."

Bird's eyes narrow, sizing Bruce up, and for the millionth time that day alone Bruce is made aware of how weak he still is. He can walk the fortress, yes, but he doesn't stand a chance in a real fight. If Bird wants to _dispose_ of him, he absolutely can. It would be easy to tell Bane that Bruce left on his own, and Bruce just has to be thankful that Bird's apparently honorable enough not to do that.

There's silence between them, and then Bird simply turns and leaves, offering absolutely no explanation for his behavior. Bruce has no idea why Bird would think he'd hurt Bane, and yet for some reason, he doesn't think Bird was wrong, either.


	6. Chapter 6

There is a routine to his life that wasn't there before.

Every morning, Bruce leaves his room and heads to the kitchen for food. He eats whatever he's given, then makes his way around the edge of the fort, observing the daily goings-on. The first while, he can only manage a steady walk, but over time his strength grows, and he takes to jogging around, pushing himself to see how far he can go before he's forced to catch his breath.

His presence becomes a regular part of life at the fort. People pay him no mind as he goes about his day, and while almost no one talks to him, almost no one bothers him, either. A few will join him for meals, seemingly to snicker at his accent before they move on. He's an oddity, not a threat, and it gives him plenty of room to do whatever he pleases as he goes about his day. If he wants to jog, he can jog. If he wants to do push-ups (or try, anyway), he can.

Despite how many people there are, it's still a lonely sort of existence. The only people he _really_ speaks to are Bird and Bane, although occasionally he does catch others staring at him.

The best part of his day, by far, is the evening. After a long day of pushing his body to his limit, there are few things better things then to head down to the baths and sink into the warm water.

Most of the time he's alone. There are plenty of pools, room enough for more than a dozen men to each have their own, but only one that's large enough for Bruce to work his way through what he remembers of his physiotherapy exercises. It's easier to run through them in water, the strain on his joints significantly less. Sometimes when he comes down one of the other pools will be occupied, but people tend to clear out when he arrives.

He's never come down and found the big pool occupied, and yet it is: Bane's in it, his head tipped back as he stares up at the ceiling of the cave that makes up the baths.

"I had wondered where you went in the evenings," Bane says without turning his head. "Who knew I would find you here?"

"Have to wash the sweat off somewhere," Bruce says. He's not entirely sure what he wants to do or where he wants to go. Into one of the other pools, maybe? None of them will be big enough to fully stretch in, but he can make do, and he's not going to demand that Bane get out to give him space. He's heading to one of the far pools when Bane makes a noise, drawing his attention and making him stop.

Bane's looking at him, and he raises a hand, beckoning Bruce over.

There _is_ room enough for two, but Bruce can't help but be wary. The balance of power is precarious, and there's something strangely intimate about joining Bane in the pool. It feels like the sort of thing only close friends should be doing, and Bane is...

Well, Bruce doesn't know how he feels about Bane. He owes him, and Bane has been kind to him, but he's been distant as of late, letting Bruce recover on his own without hovering nearby.

Bruce joins him anyway.

It's not as if Bane hasn't seen him naked before, but there's something _different_ as Bruce sinks into the water, letting the heat permeate his muscles. He _wants_ to relax, only the hair on the back of his neck's standing up and he can't quite make himself relax.

Bane is, rather pointedly, not looking at him. It feels obvious to Bruce that he's _not_ looking, which only serves to throw Bruce off more, because he's not sure if he should also not be looking at Bane. Everything about the situation is uncomfortable in a way Bruce hasn't had to deal with in a long time.

It reminds him, more than anything, of watching Tim and Barbara interact, neither quite wanting to commit to anything. Almost flirting, but not. A similar sort of tension, only obviously not actually the same. But it gives him at least something to work with, a joke to break the tension.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were attracted to me and trying not to look."

It's a joke, or at least meant as one, but Bane doesn't laugh. His reaction is neither amused nor offended: it's simply muted, a subdued response to something intended to have diffused the awkwardness.

Instead, it's made it worse, and Bruce feels the sudden sinking realization that he hasn't misjudged the situation at all.

Bane _is_ attracted to him.

_Oh._

"I'm sorry," Bruce blurts before his brain can hope to even process the situation. "I didn't realize—"

"I must admit I am surprised you did not," Bane says. His voice is even, unconcerned. He doesn't seem upset by Bruce's flub, simply carrying on with the conversation as if it were a perfectly ordinary discussion they had every day. "Is it because it is me, or is it because it is you?"

A glib, quick little question that cuts to the heart of the matter in a way that makes Bruce deeply uncomfortable, in large part because he doesn't have an answer right away.

He should say that it's because it's Bane. Bane has, after all, always been an enemy. He's done terrible things. He's been a tyrant.

But it isn't.

The instinctual revulsion he feels at the idea has nothing to do with Bane and everything to do with _him._ He's a shadow of who he once was, and he struggles to understand how anyone could actually be attracted to _him._

Before? Sure. But right then? It's a struggle to imagine.

"Ah," Bane says, and then lets out a short laugh that makes Bruce want to sink down into the water until he goddamn drowns. "Yourself. I should have known. You would not judge others when you could judge yourself instead."

At that, Bruce _does_ sink down, submerging himself up to his chin and pondering going lower.

"I will not do you a disservice of pretending I did not prefer you as you were before, but I believe you are being overly harsh on yourself. You would have little trouble finding a partner in any city of the world."

Bruce stares down at his arms, struggling to accept that Bane isn't just talking out of his ass. They seem to _small_ to him, even more so as he sits across from Bane, who is...

Well, Bane's a big guy. Bruce has never given much thought to how Bane _looks,_ and now he can't help but take a quick glance. He's... well, _big_ is definitely the overriding sentiment, because Bane is nothing if not that, but when Bruce actually takes the time to look past that, he can't deny that Bane's fairly attractive. The biggest mark against him in most people's minds are going to be his scars, but Bruce has never been particularly bothered by that sort of thing.

But Bane _does_ have a lot of scars. There are scars on almost every inch of his body, old long faded ones and more recent ones that are only just starting to heal. There are ones that Bruce knows were once connected to venom tubes, and ones he thinks were from knives, and some on his wrists that Bruce are pretty sure are from ropes.

The only place he can't see is Bane's face, his mask still firmly in place. Bruce doesn't think he's ever seen him without it, although that feels more like an oversight. The police must have taken the mask off when they arrested him, and yet Bruce can't remember having seen any photo like that. Maybe Bane made a deal with them to keep it on?

"I confess this is not playing out quite the way I expected," Bane says. He leans forward slightly, and while Bruce is pointedly _not_ looking under the water, he gets the impression that Bane's knitted his fingers together. "I assumed that when you worked it out you would simply reject me and be done with it."

For the first time in a long time, Bruce's brain no longer feels like molasses. He's actually following what's going on, his brain racing ahead as he puts the pieces of the puzzle in their proper places.

"Bird knows, doesn't he? That's why he said he was afraid I'd hurt you. I thought he meant _physically,_ that I'd betray you or sell you out, but that isn't what he meant at all."

"He believes that you would use it against me. While he and those closest to me take no issue with my interests, the rest of my men would not be so accommodating. It is his belief—one I share, I must admit—that if my enemies learned the truth, that it would become a weapon to be used against me."

Bruce rarely—never, really—gives much thought to the sexuality of his enemies, but if he'd had to guess, he'd have thought that Bane was... well, straight most likely, but if he'd _really_ thought about it, he'd have assumed he was asexual. Bane's never shown even the slightest scrap of interest in _anything._

Now he knows why.

"You... just like men?" He asks, which is pointless to ask because the answer is _obviously._

"Yes. Trogg believes it is because I saw no women for much of my early life, even though I have told him several times over that such things do not work in that manner. I am this way because it is who I am."

Bane leans in slightly, and Bruce jerks back, his heart suddenly racing. He feels stupid almost immediately, but Bane doesn't seem upset, offering a smile that's not _malicious_ , but does promise trouble.

"You have not rejected me because you are also attracted to men, but have given this no thought before now, yes?"

"...Yes," Bruce admits.

It feels so easy to admit it. To just confess that yes, he's attracted to men. He's never found the right one, never given it much thought, but yes, men are... well, he likes them, although his feelings about them are complicated. They're not appealing in the same way women are: they're appealing in a very different sort of way, 

"Hmm," Bane muses, his eyes running up and down Bruce. "I was not expecting a yes. It seemed a risk just to admit it to you, and yet I have not yet found myself rejected."

That... alright. Bruce's brain finally delivers an answer to him, and he makes himself speak before he can second guess himself.

"Not... yet. Not now, I mean. I'm not..." His fingers, without meaning too, dig into the flesh of his arm. Still too soft. Still too weak. "I'm not in a place where I could be involved with anyone, and I don't want—"

"I understand," Bane says. "You are still recovering. The last thing I would wish is to push you to do things you're uncomfortable with."

A part of Bruce wants to go back to his room and lie face down in his bed until his brain stops running at a mile a minute, but he knows that isn't the right choice. The right choice is to _deal_ with things, and Bane...

Bane is complicated.

He _owes_ Bane, and he doesn't want to do anything because he _owes_ Bane, which means he has to spend his time sorting out of his feelings, and he's never been any good at that. Feelings are not in his wheelhouse.

"I'm sorry," Bruce makes himself say, because Alfred—and thinking of him feels like a knife to the guts—has always told him that _communication is the key to healthy relationships._

Maybe he should have taken that to heart before.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"Consider that preemptive," Bruce says with a small sigh. "At some point, I'm going to do something stupid, and that's going to hurt you, and that is... that isn't what I intend. I am just... not very good at emotions."

That gets a laugh, and Bane reaches down, scooping Bruce's hand up in his own. The size difference is _very_ distracting, although not in an unpleasant way. It's... well, Bruce has to admit it's strangely sort of appealing dealing with someone who's actually bigger than him for once.

And having Bane raise his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the backside of his hand is... well, Bruce's stomach does a confused flip, and he feels his face begin to heat up.

"I will leave you to your bath," Bane says, releasing Bruce's hand. "I know that Zombie has mentioned he had some ideas for you. Perhaps you'll find yourself busier in the coming weeks."

He flashes a smile, and then lifts himself from the bath, moving to leave. Bruce averts his eyes fast enough to avoid seeing a bit too much of Bane, but as Bane leaves Bruce gets a good view of his back, criss-crossed with thick bands of scar tissue.

It's just one more sign that Bane's life has been a hard one, but it's the instinctive desire to reach out and run his fingers over them that catches Bruce off guard. He keeps his hands to himself, watching Bane go, and the moment the other man is out of earshot, Bruce lets himself sink down into the water, his eyes drifting closed.

His heart doesn't stop racing until long after he's back in his room.


	7. Chapter 7

Bane, Bruce realizes, keeps a very small group of loyal men near him. He's already met Bird, but there's two others that Bruce meets in the following days: Trogg and Zombie.

Zombie's waiting for him the following morning, a thin man with a stiff posture. He looks old—significantly older than either him or Bane—but it's the strange marks around his mouth that catch Bruce's interest. There are perfect little dots just above and below his lips, evenly spaced and clearly man-made scars. They look, Bruce realizes a moment too late, as if his mouth was sewn shut.

He gets all the confirmation he needs when the stranger gestures to his mouth and makes it extremely clear that he won't be talking when he opens his mouth and reveals the damage someone particularly cruel has done to him.

Zombie does, however, know sign language, and Santa Priscan sign borrows heavily from both American and Spanish sign language, enough that Bruce can follow what he's saying despite not officially knowing Santa Priscan sign at all.

Zombie, he comes to understand, has ideas, and Bane's asked him to introduce them to Bruce. He's lead into a room near the heart of the fortress, a workshop that looks extremely high tech compared to the rudimentary fortress. There's a well equipped lab on one side, while the other side is more mechanical in nature.

They're also, Bruce realizes, not alone. There's a man already there, using tweezers to dissect some small piece of machinery as they arrive. He doesn't look up, giving Bruce a moment to take in his appearance: short and broad, with heavily tanned skin that's _very_ hairy. 

_Trogg,_ Zombie signs to him. _He handles the machines._

Trogg pays them no mind as Zombie ushers Bruce in, closing the door behind them.

_Bane says you have agreed to work with us._

"Bane is being overly optimistic," Bruce replies. He hasn't _agreed_ yet. He just hasn't rejected the idea completely. It isn't the same thing at all.

_Yet you are not saying no._

"Bane is an idealistic fool," Trogg calls to him in English, which is significantly less jarring than the idea of someone describing Bane as _an idealist._ It's not a term Bruce would have ever applied to him, for sure. "He thinks you'll join us, even though you have no investment in Santa Prisca."

 _Ignore him,_ Zombie signs, already doing just that. _You chose a bat to instill fear?_

Bruce glances between Trogg—still not looking at them as he tinkers—and Zombie before opting to focus on Zombie for the moment.

"Not quite so simple, but yes, that was the sentiment. Making myself a symbol... I wanted to spook those who were easily superstitious."

They both clearly know who he is. Do they know about Bane? Bruce imagines that they do, but he isn't stupid enough to actually _say_ it and risk them finding out. Until Bane says something himself, Bruce is keeping his mouth shut.

_Does it have to be a bat?_

"No," Bruce says immediately. "It would be better if it wasn't."

No matter what—whether he's willing to join Bane's side or not—Bruce doesn't want it connected back to who he was in Gotham. It would be easier— _so_ much easier—if he and everyone else just treated the Bruce he is now as an entirely new person.

Who he was is gone.

 _Do you know what they do to the bodies of those who die in Santa Priscan prisons?_ Zombie asks, repeating his signs when Bruce doesn't catch the full meaning the first time around. Bruce shakes his head, and Zombie elaborates. _There is no burial for prisoners. They are wrapped in cloth and thrown into the sea for the sharks to eat. Santa Prisca has many legends about what becomes of them. One says that they live in the caves beneath the island and come to take away unhappy children. Another says that they come up out of the sea to seek justice._

Bruce can see what Zombie's going with things already.

"You think I should be one of them. The angry spirit of a murdered prisoner come to life."

"Bane already is," Trogg points out with a short laugh, and when Bruce glances, he finds that Trogg's sitting upright, watching the two of them. Watching Zombie's signs, probably. "The government doesn't yet fear him as they should, but one day they will."

Zombie taps his fingers against his palm, drawing Bruce's attention, and then continues.

_One day we will strike against the Santa Priscan government and take_ _Peña Duro apart stone by stone, but we are not strong enough for that yet. Until we are, we must focus on protecting the people._

"Which is what I'm for."

"Correct," Trogg agrees. He lifts himself from his stool, moving over to a cupboard and starting to dig through. "A week ago, the government executed a man some of Santa Prisca considered a hero. One of the soldiers was in love with the man's wife, and refused to accept her refusal... or that she was married. When the soldier attempted to take her for himself, the man killed the soldier. For that, he was tortured endlessly... and then executed."

"And you want me to be him."

 _I think he would approve,_ Zombie signs. _The soldiers came and took his wife, and she joined him in the sea. We think his son is in one of Santa Prisca's prisons, but we have not yet found him._

Bruce feels sick.

Santa Prisca's practice of holding _children_ accountable for the crimes of their parents is a terrible one. It's awful enough when used against a criminal's _adult_ children, and a whole other matter when used against _actual minors._ He—and damn near everyone else, by that point—know that's where Bane came from, and the fact that Santa Prisca is continuing the practice...

Well, at the very least he understands now.

"Bane said he's fighting the cartels. He can't deal with the government until the cartels are dealt with, or else he'll have the cartels _and_ the soldiers after him."

Trogg smiles at him, and Zombie, after a moment, does as well.

Goddammit.

"He's hoping _I'll_ terrorize the government on behalf of those being hurt by them. The government won't be able to connect it to him. It's about protecting the people, but it's also about harassing the government and those that work for them."

 _Wrongs still need to be righted, regardless of your reasoning for it,_ Zombie signs. _He has faith that you will do the right thing, even though you have no loyalty to the island._

"I don't have the same kind of faith," Trogg says. "He's hinging too much on your kindness. He—"

"You can stop trying to convince me," Bruce says, and Trogg's face falls, momentarily confused. "You're intentionally playing the dissenting opinion, putting it into sharper contrast. It's not quite a guilt trip, but it's in that general vicinity: reminding me that this isn't an act of war, it's an act of protection. Framing it as a _kindness_ to the people of Santa Prisca."

Bane wouldn't have told him to use the tactic, Bruce is sure, and Trogg's scowling being matched with an amused smile from Zombie all but confirms that it was Trogg acting on his own.

 _Bane would not be interested in him if he was stupid,_ Zombie signs, and Trogg lets out a _pah._

Apparently, Zombie approves.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce never actually agrees to Bane's plan, but that doesn't stop him from going along with it. 

He trains with a new level of enthusiasm, a goal in mind providing all the incentive he needs. When he's well enough, Trogg shows him where the men train, sending him into the wolf den with a few choice words.

"Who wants to show our guest how Bane's men fight?" He calls, and in no time at all people are all but lining up for a chance to have a go at him. He's not _unpopular,_ but he is an oddity and an outsider, and putting him down onto a sparring mat is a nice easy way for everyone involved to get a feel for him.

"Don't break anything," Trogg calls. "He's still fragile."

Trogg couldn't have painted a more obvious target on his back if he'd gotten a bucket of paint, and Bruce knows no one's going to go easy on him. The first man is the cocky sort, obviously planning to raise his social capitol by being first in line to toss the new arrival.

Bruce lays him out in one move.

It's not a _choice_ Bruce makes. The man just comes at him, and the part of his brain that spent decades fighting for his life against the worst Gotham has to offer suddenly comes back online. He steps aside, using one foot to trip the man up, and all the careful training Bane's clearly put him through goes out the window as he face-plants onto the mats.

The rest of the room bursts into laughter.

If he was being smart—if he was thinking about how to play the situation properly—he'd act surprised. He'd accept a rematch and go down the second time around.

But Bruce isn't doing that. Bruce isn't there to make friends. He's there to push himself to the absolute limit. He's there to see just how far he can take himself.

So he glances to Trogg, raising an eyebrow, and says in perfect Spanish, just to make absolutely sure they can all hear, the thing he's sure will rile them up the most.

"Does Bane not train them?"

Trogg snorts, apparently realizing exactly what Bruce is up to, and that's all anyone needs to make absolutely sure they aren't holding back. When the next person comes at him, there's nothing kind about their movements, even if they do know that Bruce is only recovering. They swing _hard,_ and Bruce is forced to duck under the swing in a less than graceful move that would have any of his old instructors in tears.

He's rusty and sore, and every person who comes at him is straining his muscles to their absolute limit. But he also feels more alive then he has in a long time, not just because it's a fight, but because there's a _meaning_ to it. He has, for the first time since he left Gotham, a goal. A purpose.

Even when one of them manages to catch him off guard and knock him onto his ass, Bruce doesn't have it in him to feel upset. He just feels exhilarated, and he picks himself right up again before the lucky bastard who knocked him over can take advantage of it.

His heart is racing. Even if he hasn't even started yet—even if there's a million and one things that could go wrong, and a million and one things that he still has to do, it feels _right._

The crowd around them keeps growing as more and more of Bane's men join the spectators. Some join the line, while others simply want to jeer.

And Bruce keeps going. He keeps expecting to falter—Bane's men _have_ been trained by him, and they're no slouches—and yet he just keeps going.

Deep down, Bruce feels a joy he hasn't allowed himself to feel in a long, long time.

And then, of course, someone kicks his ankle out from under him and Bruce goes down hard.

His opponent isn't as slow to react the second time he goes down, rushing in. He lands two sharp blows—nothing breaks, but Bruce knows he's going to be dealing with the bruise to end all bruises—and then someone yells and the man backs off.

Bane's standing over him, and everyone else has backed off. His head's spinning, whether from the fall or the adrenaline crash he isn't sure, and when he attempts to pick himself up he stumbles. Bane's hand dips down, grabbing Bruce's shoulder and pulling him upright with a short and very unimpressed grunt.

"You pushed yourself too hard," Bane says in Spanish. "Come, I will take you to rest."

His heart won't stop racing. He can't stop thinking about how he feels, about how _right_ he feels.

It's almost inevitable that when he arrives at his room, he reaches up and drags Bane into a kiss.

Bane clearly isn't expecting it, because his entire body stiffens, hands hovering awkwardly above Bruce as if afraid that he'll break if touched.

For that matter, _Bruce_ wasn't really expecting it either, even if he was the one to actually do it in the first place. He feels almost drunk, giddy on the realization that he's no longer useless. Maybe even a little bit giddy on the realization that someone _wants_ him.

"Bruce..." Bane's voice is soft, and Bruce wonders if that's the first time he's heard Bane say his name since he arrived on Santa Prisca. "Someone could see."

Bruce kisses him again anyway. It's a strain, considering how tall Bane is, but Bane dips lower anyway, allowing him the touch.

"You said you wished to wait," Bane reminds him. He's almost _shy,_ and _that's_ lighting a fire under Bruce, because the last thing anyone would expect from someone like Bane is _shyness._

Yet that's what he's getting.

"I changed my mind."

Bruce tries to close the distance, but this time Bane does withdraw, shaking his head.

"You may very well have a concussion."

"I don't have a _concussion,"_ Bruce counters, but the moments already passed, and he withdraws, giving Bane the space he was obviously seeking. "I was just... happy."

When was the last time he could say that and _mean_ it?

"I know. And yet it is my duty to make sure you do not do anything you will regret later."

"I wouldn't regret you."

It's such a simple thing to say, and yet Bane seems genuinely taken aback, staring down at him in clear surprise.

It's then that the reality of it all sinks in for Bruce. Bane's been nothing if not considerate of Bruce's feeling, but he's ignored his own because he _expected to be rejected._ The admittance of his feelings was perfunctory. Something he had to do, but wouldn't really _mean_ anything.

Bane, so sensitive of the fact that Bruce would feel like no one could possibly want him.

Bane, who feels that way all the time.

Bruce reaches up, resting his hands on either side of Bane's face. Now that he knows what to look for, he can see the signs—the uncertainty written all over Bane's features, even through the mask.

Fuck, the mask _itself_ should have made it obvious. People don't just _wear masks all the time for no goddamn reason._

"This isn't something I'd regret." It deserves repeating, so he makes sure to do so. "But you're right, we should wait. When I'm stronger, we can talk about this again."

Bane stares at him, his expression suddenly hard to read, and Bruce holds his position for a moment longer before finally dropping his hands to his sides.

"When you can beat me," Bane says. He laughs, but it's a brief, clipped thing. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't _feel_ it.

"When I can beat you," Bruce agrees.

It isn't bluster: Bruce knows just how to do it, and he isn't going to let anything stop him.


	9. Chapter 9

Having a destination in mind makes everything Bruce has to do that much easier to manage, and the hundreds of steps towards his goal are just that: steps.

He can take them one at a time.

He continues to exercise, pushing himself to his limit in every way. He helps Trogg with the design of his new gear, finding the man prickly but very competent at his work. He makes a point of showing up in the training room at least once a day, taking on a few opponents before retiring despite jeers trying to get him to do more.

But the most important part of his preparation is when Bird takes him down into the city.

By that point, he's been in Santa Prisca for months, but he's seen almost nothing of the island or its people. They exist, to him, almost as hypotheticals. People who are suffering, but whose suffering he has never seen.

Which is why he makes the trip down.

The closest town is more than a half hour away, a long walk through heavy foliage. There are paths, all of which Bird finds easily, but Bruce struggles to keep up, unfamiliar with the territory.

The closest town, it turns out, isn't even really a town. It's a loose collection of buildings arranged around a circle where the road dead-ends. There's a bus stop, and Bird simply gets in the queue like it's a perfectly ordinary thing.

There are others waiting, but none of them give Bruce even a second glance. Between his beard (less well kept then he'd like) and his simple clothes, Bruce doubts he's recognizable, but he feels paranoid anyway.

Bird, on the other hand, might be. A few people do seem to recognize him, giving him polite nods. Friendly, then. It makes sense: Bane's men must pass through the little village fairly often. Probably they're sympathizers, or at least the sort of people who'd prefer to keep their heads down.

Santa Prisca isn't a large island, and the vast majority of human settlement is arranged along the south coast. Once the bus makes it out of the jungle, it reaches a well-paved road that Bird explains runs along the entire southern coast, from the capital all the way to the main port town on the far side of the island. It's the capital they head to, the largest city on the entire island, and by far the place where it's easiest to blend in.

It reminds Bruce of Metropolis far more than Gotham. Sure, the architecture is all different, the materials more naturalistic than the metal and glass of Metropolis or the dark stone of Gotham, and the designs show the island's Spanish influences clearly. The streets, to Bruce's eye, seem more open, less claustrophobic than Gothams, but less orderly than Metropolis's blatant city-planning efforts.. The buildings are brighter and more colorful, decorated all over with the vibrant colors of the Santa Priscan flag.

It's only once they're past the outer area, where the tourists and wealthy congregate, that Bruce realizes how badly he's misjudged.

The people—or maybe just the government—of Santa Prisca have made a concerted and obvious effort to hide the worst parts of the city away. There are entire blocks of the city accessible only via narrow alleys, boxed in on all sides by the newer developments. It's a nightmare of city planning, insanely unsafe, and there's something deeply surreal about being on one street, surrounded by bright colors and happy, smiling faces, and then walking no more than ten feet and suddenly being surrounded on all sides by endless signs of human misery.

"The flags mean something," Bruce says. It isn't a question, but it might as well be, and Bird nods.

"It's intended to show approval of the government and what they're doing, but in the end it's more a sign of cowardice. No one here _really_ approves—the only people happy with things live in the gated communities on the far end of the city, well away from the _commoners."_

"They fly the flags so officials won't harass them?" Bruce guesses quietly, and Bird nods.

"That's the idea. It doesn't work, of course, but they hope that it does."

They draw no attention as Bird shows him around the city. Smaller than Gotham, but the similarities stand out to Bruce just the same. The same desperate, hopeful looks throughout the city, worn by rich and poor alike. Bruce has never been in Santa Prisca's capital before, and yet it feels deeply familiar.

It feels like home.

Every new street he finds himself memorizing routes, spotting them on sheer instinct. Old fire escapes, rusted from disuse. Window ledges that could hold his weight. An old church, once ornate, and now fallen into disuse, the gargoyles on the parapets broken to pieces.

"Do _any_ officials live here?" Bruce asks, and Bird lets out a short laugh.

"There's a river on the east side of the city. The military guards it, and only allows people to cross who have business. All the upper brass live in the community over the river."

"Can I see it?"

Bird takes him to see it, but not by road. Instead, they take a route up onto the rooftops, and Bird crouches low as they work their way to the far east edge of the city, looking out over the river... and the residences across from them.

Big, ornate mansions, the kind Alfred always hated: useless places that existed only to show off how rich their owners were. Bruce doesn't believe, even for a moment, that any of the people there have ever opened their manors to allow people to shelter inside. If something were to happen in the capital, the residents of the shining city over the river would simply destroy the bridge and leave the _rabble_ to their fates.

Bruce's hands ball into fists, and he exhales through his nose, forcing himself to relax, the tension easing out of his shoulders.

"Now you see," Bird says.

"Now I see," Bruce confirms. "And soon _they'll_ see."

"Oh Bruce, I'm liking you more every day."


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce feels like a missile as he prepares for his _debut._ Sure, Bane and his men are helping _prepare_ him, but he knows that the moment he's set free he's going to be on his own. They can't help; if they do, it'll ruin a significant portion of the plan.

So once the rough outline is in place, Bruce becomes more secretive. He doesn't discuss his plans with any of them, and after a second visit with Bird begins taking regular trips into the city, learning the layout as he puts his plan together.

It's Bane, though, that picks the final day.

"Whatever you will do, it should be done two nights from now, on the night of the new moon," he announces over dinner. Who Bruce eats with tends to vary, but right then it's all five of them, something that seems calculated in light of Bane's announcement.

"Do I want to know what's happening with all of you two nights from now?" Bruce asks before going right back to eating. No one lets food linger, and with the communal style of food Bane favors, it's _use it or lose it_ when it comes to what's on your plate.

 _You do not,_ Zombie signs.

"Better not to say," Bane says. "There is some concern that you will be caught."

"You can relax," Bruce says, well aware that it'll be either Trogg or Bird who'd voice those concerns. "I'm confident in the plan I've put together."

"Maybe one of us should go to watch him," Bird says, glancing to Bane for his opinion, but Bane simply shakes his head.

"He will manage on his own or not at all," Bane says. "He does not need watching."

"Should have at least had him fight one of us to prove he can handle it," Trogg says. "We could do it today, even."

 _Too close to the mission,_ Zombie signs with a shake of his head. _Everyone needs to be at their best. Trust Bane's opinion._

Bane's seen a lot of him. They haven't had a serious _spar,_ but Bane's tested him in other ways.

"I'd feel a lot less nervous if I knew he wasn't going to fuck this up," Trogg grunts.

All of them are fluent in English and Spanish, and conversations tend to bounce back and forth between languages. Bruce mostly speaks English, they all mostly speak Spanish, and everyone understands one another.

So Bruce makes a point of demonstrating that he's not bullshitting. He swaps to Spanish, his accent a near-perfect mimic of Trogg's own. He's spent meals with Bane's men, studying the cadence of it, the word choices. He's learned it inside and out, but he's only ever used it in private.

"I'm sure I can manage," Bruce says in his very best version of Santa Priscan Spanish, and Trogg's so surprised he actually drops his fork.

"See?" Bane says without pause. "He is competent."

Trogg huffs, but doesn't question Bruce again.

The next day and a half is a whirlwind of activity as Bruce prepares everything he'll need. It's impossible for him, as he prepares his gear, not to think back to Alfred, and yet it doesn't carry the same painful melancholy feeling that it did before. He misses Alfred, and thinking about him makes Bruce's chest feel hollow, but it no longer feels like he's being eviscerated every time Alfred's name crosses his mind.

Maybe sometime soon, Bruce will have to sit down and think it all through, but right then he doesn't have the time or the emotional energy to work through his feelings about everything he's left behind.

He has a job to do.

The night of the new moon, Bruce says goodbye to Bane before he leaves early in the afternoon, hours ahead of the time he'll actually _do_ anything. He rests his hand on Bane's forearm, lifting himself up to press a small, chaste kiss to Bane's lips before pulling back.

The affection feels right. It feels _good_ in a way that nothing else about his life does.

"Be safe," is all that Bane says, and Bruce offers him a smile as he turns to go.

"I always am."

As secure as the enclave over the river seems, Bruce knows that it's a lie. He has enough experience with the wealthy to know there must be dozens of ways in, but Bruce simply takes the easiest, the one he'll only be able to use once.

He walks right in.

Sure, there are armed guards on the bridge into the community, but it's clearly intended to be an easy posting, once that doesn't see much trouble. It's easy enough for Bruce to dress similarly to the workers he sees coming and going in the morning and evenings, and then slip into the crowd, his bag of gear slung over his shoulder. With his beard trimmed down (it's going to have to come off after this, but for the moment it's a good disguise) nothing about him sticks out.

One of the workers _does_ seem to notice him, eyeing Bruce for a moment, but he doesn't keep staring. Whether he recognizes that Bruce is up to something and decides to let him have at it, or if he simply assumes he's mistaken thinking that Bruce is up to something doesn't really matter. Bruce doubts he'll come forward, considering the general sentiment among the common man in the city is _keep your head down._

Considering that knowing too much can get you tortured, tossed in prison, or straight up executed, Bruce doesn't blame them.

He splits away from the rest of the workers, heading towards the governor's manor. It's by _far_ the largest and most ornate, and there's even two guards posted out front, guards which Bruce bypasses entirely by simply walking down the workers access path along the side. There are cameras, but Bruce would bet every dollar he has that no one's actually watching them, if they're working at all. Even if they are recording, by the time they get around to checking he'll be long gone.

Assuming they look at all.

Bruce ducks away from the path, crossing into the back garden. He's in unknown territory, here: there were blueprints Zombie was willing to show him, but they were initial plans, not the reality of it, and they didn't include an actual map of the grounds. Thankfully, the hedges are high enough that he can pass undetected, heading to the nearest structure to lie low. There's a shed, which Bruce heads behind, out of sight from all but the most careful investigators.

And then he waits.

He's told Dick and—god, he's told Jason too, although _that_ name feels raw and painful—but he's told them all a million times that being willing to wait is half of their job, and he meant it. Night is when people _expect_ you to sneak in. Night is when people _pay attention._ No one expects anyone to sneak in with the sun still overhead.

So Bruce, crouched behind a shed, dozes.

The sun sinks below the horizon, and darkness grows. Not far away, someone—a gardener, probably—wraps up their work, locking up the shed Bruce is hiding behind, leaving without finding him.

The darkness swallows Bruce up, and as it does his mind finally goes still. There is nothing more to think about. Everything is already in motion.

It feels so _right,_ when the moon is high enough, to stand, stretch out, and then begin to retrieve the pieces of his new suit from his bag. It's not as high tech as the one he had in Gotham, but it doesn't need to be. Unless he makes a monumentally stupid mistake, he shouldn't see any real combat at all. The suit's more about the _look._

And Bruce has the look perfected.

The bag, emptied out, has almost nothing in it, and Bruce stashes it away to retrieve on the way out if he can. There's no evidence to be found there, and burning it will only draw attention. Silence and discretion are his greatest allies as he finishes his costume, pulling the cowl down over his face. Unlike his old one, this hides his entire face, leaving it blank and featureless. It feels stifling compared to the freedom of his old one, but he knows he'll get used to it in time.

Everything about the gear he now wears is focused on _stealth,_ and he takes full advantage of it as he crosses through the garden towards the house. He knows the layout from the blueprints, knows just which side of the house to scale, heading up towards the governor's window.

Bruce hasn't been sent in to do things manually, though. He has gadgets, provided by Trogg and tweaked by himself. The first, a simple scanner, he runs around the edge of the window frame, checking for signs of a security system. There is one, but it's a simple, out of date model that's easily bypassed.

The window, to Bruce's amusement, isn't even locked, and he slips into the governor's bedroom with every intention of causing as much trouble as possible.

The governor of Santa Prisca sleeps alone in a massive bed. His bedroom wouldn't look out of place in any old manor in Europe, so the fact that the entire thing was built at the expense of the Santa Priscan public rankles Bruce to no end. He carefully deploys the most handy of his gadgets, and moves as quiet as can be as he sets things up, blocking the door just in case he screams and brings security down on them.

Only once he's all set up—almost a full ten minutes after he entered the room—does Bruce put his plan into action.

He stands near the foot of the bed, his suit fully active for the first time. Without the moon, he's nearly invisible, a shadow among shadows.

"Miguel."

His voice is low, but it's the suit—and his mask—that does the bulk of the work. The mask has sound-cancelling properties, and it cuts certain tones out of his speech, both making his voice impossible to recognize and giving it an eerie, strange quality. There's even a touch of echo, making it sound almost like multiple people whispering, rather than Bruce simply speaking quietly.

Miguel doesn't stir, a heavy sleeper, so Bruce tries again. The second time around gets a reaction, and Miguel's eyes flutter open. It's so goddamn dark he probably can't see a thing, but Bruce's mask has significantly better night vision than a human eye can manage. He lets Miguel wake partially, standing in silence as Miguel's brain processes that something is wrong. The parts of Miguel's brain that remember fleeing from predators are awake, telling him something is wrong, but Miguel still can't _see_ him.

He watches Miguel set up in his bed, head turning to and from as he tries to determine what woke him, and then speaks again, his voice whisper-soft, barely audible.

"Miguel."

"What the fuck?" Miguel murmurs, head turning to and fro as he tries to place the noise. He hasn't quite realized what's happening, which is exactly what Bruce wants.

"Miguel."

Miguel's not awake enough to scream for help—or maybe he just thinks he's still asleep—but he does have the presence of mind to lean over, flicking on the light on the nightstand. It would be a good idea if Bruce hadn't already tampered with it, the bulb replaced with one of his own that's covered with a thin, semi-opaque layer that cuts the light it gives off significantly. It's just enough to let Miguel see Bruce standing at the foot of his bed, and the man jerks back with a yelp, eyes going wide.

Bruce's suit is, in his obviously unbiased opinion, a masterpiece. The material is semi-transparent and hangs loosely around him, giving him an unclear, vague silhouette. It's actually the armor itself which Bruce is most proud of, the material patterned to look almost like scales. The underlayer is matte, catching any light, but the scaled armor is reflective, making the scales look almost wet in low light.

In full light, the effect isn't going to hold up, but if Bruce can pull it off, he isn't ever going to _be_ in full light.

"What the _fuck?"_ Miguel hisses, reaching up to rub at his eyes as if expecting Bruce to be gone when he's done. "What the fuck— who the hell are you?"

"Miguel."

It's probably the first time Miguel's actually recognized what's being said, because he goes still, eyes widening. He doesn't seem to be terribly superstitious, but _most_ people aren't going to assume a robber when dealing with something like Bruce.

"Who—" He trails off, apparently struggling to find the right words. Struggling to figure out what he can even say when staring down something that looks like a monster.

"You took my son, Miguel."

Miguel is silent, staring up at Bruce. He seems confused, the horror just beginning to sink in.

Bruce is about to make it much, much worse.

"I want my son, Miguel." He reaches out, grabbing Miguel's ankle.

Miguel, smarter than Bruce gave him credit for, pulls a gun out from under his pillow, and Bruce has a split second to decide what he's going to do, and when Miguel points the gun at his chest (a smart idea, since aiming for center mass is going to be the best chance of hitting) Bruce holds his ground.

The bullet hits him square in the chest, burying itself in Bruce's bulletproof vest, and it takes every shred of his self control to not react at all.

Miguel's eyes go wide, and Bruce's hand darts out, grabbing the hand with the gun in it and starting to squeeze, preventing Miguel from firing again.

"My son, Miguel. Return him to his family, or I'll drag you down with me."

The eyes of Bruce's mask light up, burning red as he looms over. Miguel _loses_ it, nearly hysterical with terror. Bruce can't _hear_ security coming, the room apparently having some sort of sound proofing, but he's confident the door will hold at least long enough for him to do what he needs.

He remembers everything that's happened, everything Miguel's responsible for. Miguel, who signed the execution order. Miguel, who _went to the execution himself._

He chokes Miguel to within an inch of his life. He wants there to be bruises, scratches from the sharp nails of the suit. But _mostly,_ he wants Miguel unconscious and just coming to when his security bursts through the door.

Miguel doesn't put up as much of a fight as Bruce was expecting, passing out in short order. The moment he has, Bruce bolts. He fixes the light, swapping the bulb out, and dumps a vial of animal blood at the foot of the bed in a loose spiral pattern. It might be trample by security, but as long as enough of it remains to panic people, that's enough.

Someone slams against the door, trying to break in, and Bruce engages in the most rudimentary method known to mankind: he grabs the string attached to the door stop, heads to the window, and the moment he's clear, pulls it, dragging the doorstop out the window as he closes it behind him.

Then he runs.

The farther he gets from the house, the better, and as long as he stays out of any patches of light, he's damn near invisible. He makes it to his bag, retrieving it without even slowing down.

Getting in was easy. Getting out is harder, but is still perfectly doable. He strips out of his gear, tucking it away in his (thankfully waterproof) bag, heads well away from the bridge, and then makes the extremely cold swim across.

His chest's starting to ache, but Bruce doesn't let himself stop long enough to check how bad the bruising must be. He knows the answer is _bad_ and that he's going to need a lot of rest, but right then?

Right then he's just allowing himself to be happy with what he's accomplished.


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce wakes to the feeling of a heavy hand on his chest, the fingers splayed wide. He knows, just from the weight of the hand, who is there, so there's a smile on his face when he opens his eyes and finds Bane standing over him, his hand resting just over the massive purpling bruise on Bruce's chest.

"You were shot."

"I _allowed_ myself to be shot," Bruce says, trying to sit up and letting out a small noise of pain. The vest he was wearing isn't what he's used to, and the bruise is bigger and more painful than he'd like.

"I told you to be careful and you allowed someone to shoot you."

"The Governor."

Bane's eyebrows are hidden under the mask, but up close the fabric is thin enough Bruce can still read the broad strokes of his expressions, like the way he raises an eyebrow at that.

"If everything went right, he'll put the man's son back with his extended family. If not... I'll just have to do some more work."

Bane's hand slips up, and he runs his fingers carefully through Bruce's hair, combing it out with his fingers.

"You look tired," Bane observes after a moment, and it's true. Bruce is exhausted in a way he has no reason to be. He got enough sleep. It has to be almost moon, and he...

Okay, he's a bit tired.

"Come," Bane says, his hand scooping under Bruce's back as he helps lift him up. "You will need food, and perhaps a bath."

They don't go to the cafeteria, though. Instead, Bane leads Bruce into a part of the fort he's never had much reason to go to, into an office, and settles him in there.

It is, by all accounts, extremely bare bones. Rough stone walls without any sort of decoration, a desk shoved in one corner with two chairs in front of it, and a thin cot stuffed into the other corner. Bane's workspace, apparently, although Bruce is having a hard time imagining Bane fitting on such a small cot. Bruce imagines he probably shares the space with someone (Zombie, maybe?), but doesn't give it much more thought then that as Bane helps him settle into one of the chairs.

"I will get you food. Wait."

Bruce waits. He doesn't even really mean to, but he nods off in the chair, _resting his eyes_ for hardly more than a blink.

Then Bane's back with something warm and tasty that burns on the way down and makes Bruce's eyes water the whole time he's eating it.

He feels so relaxed that the confession just sort of slips out.

"I feel happy."

Maybe that shouldn't be a confession, and yet for Bruce it is. He's spent so long feeling nothing but miserable and now he feels... he just feels _okay._ And sometimes even _good._

Bane sinks down into the seat beside him, and Bruce cradles the bowl in his lap. His eyes are wet with tears and yet he doesn't remember when he started to cry. Everything feels right and yet everything feels wrong, the guild grabbing him by the ankle and dragging him under.

"You have left everything you were behind." Bane's voice is soft, almost gentle, but his words are like knives. "You are like a man who retires and finds that his life is empty, because his job had become everything he was. Now you're learning who you are without it."

"I don't know if I'm anything without it."

Bane's hands rest on either side of Bruce's face, holding his head up as he makes a soft noise.

"You are who you are. Whether in Gotham or on Santa Prisca, in a suit and tie or a cowl, you are still you. You will fight for the people who cannot fight for themselves. You will protect the innocent from those who would do them harm."

"I left my family."

He breaks.

He curls inward, desperate to hide away, and Bane won't let him. He gathers Bruce up like he weighs nothing, pulling him close as he wraps an arm around Bruce's back. It's the closest Bruce has been to someone since before he left Gotham, and it feels _good._

It feels like such a relief that he doesn't fight, simply curling against Bane, desperate for the physical contact he's been long denied. Feeling Bane's fingers combing through his hair is immensely relaxing, and he feels the fight go out of him even as his brain continues to swirl.

He left them behind. He told himself it was for their own good, and now he regrets it. He should have found a way. He should have said goodbye. What kind of father is he, letting them think he's dead? How could he _do_ that to them?

"You did what you thought was best at the time," Bane says, and Bruce realizes he must have been saying at least some of it out loud. "You realize that was a mistake, and yet neither you nor anyone else is capable of turning back time and undoing what is already done. All you can do is continue to move forward. All you can do is be who you are."

He didn't know who he was, and yet right then he feels like he has, at the very least, a basic understanding.

He is who he is right then, in a small room on Santa Prisca. A man who cares about others. Who wants to see justice done, even if it leaves him hurt.

He is who he is with Bane, a man with every reason to hate him who has instead showed him every kindness that Bruce can imagine. A man who's nursed him back to health. Who's seen to his every need.

A man who is kind to others, and yet struggles to accept kindness himself.

When the kiss comes, it comes so easily that Bruce is surprised. It feels _right,_ the perfect end to his entire thought process. Regardless of guilt, he likes who he is right then. He likes who he is with Bane, and Bane... Bane seems to like him as well.

It's unfortunately Bane who breaks the kiss, though.

"You should clean up," he says, his fingers dropping to run across the bruise on Bruce's chest. "You should have a medic look at that."

"It's a bruise," Bruce points out, because god knows he's had so much worse. "I can handle it."

"I do not wish to see you hurt any further. You should rest."

Bane's nervousness is obvious, and while Bruce wants to respect it, he's also frustrated by the sudden hesitation. He knows better than to bring it up directly, so instead he tries to sidestep the matter entirely.

"How about I go shave this beard off, get cleaned up, and then I'll meet you down in the baths?" The baths are the best case scenario as far as Bruce is concerned, a way for the two of them to be missing clothes without Bane being nervous about it. He was fine before, and Bruce is hoping he'll be fine with it again.

Bane hesitates anyway, and Bruce reaches down, taking Bane's hand in his own and giving it a small squeeze.

"I'll meet you there, alright?"

He leaves Bane behind then, knowing that Bane isn't likely to leave him waiting, and heads to find Zombie.

Zombie, of course, has a straight razor he's willing to share, and Bruce settles down in front of a bathroom mirror and some running water and gets to work.

He hasn't paid much attention to his appearance in the last while. Really, not since he parted ways with Alfred. He cringes when he looks at him himself in the mirror, reaching up to rub his fingers through the rather untamed looking beard he's sporting.

How was Bane attracted to him when he looks like such a mess? He shaves away the mess, revealing dry skin beneath, and runs his fingers over a thin scar on his cheek that's new to him. He has no memory of any injury associated with it, and no memory of the injury healing. When did he ever get it? How did he gain a serious enough injury and have it heal completely without him even noticing?

It's just another sign of how disconnected he's become from himself, and how slowly he's coming back to himself.

Once he's done, setting the razor blade aside, Bruce looks into the mirror and can recognize himself for the first time in a long, long time.


	12. Chapter 12

Bane is waiting for him when he descends into the baths. He's already claimed the largest of the pools, and the area is otherwise empty. Bruce suspects Bane's told everyone to clear out, but it doesn't matter anyway. There's only one set of stairs, and sneaking down them is damn near impossible.

Bruce knows; he's tried.

It feels right to slip into the pool, and even more so to slide over to Bane, pressing up against his side. Bane looks, if Bruce is going to be completely honest with himself, nothing short of _adorable._ Even with his face hidden, his body language screams how hesitant he is, how clearly nervous, and while it might just be the warm waters, his shoulders seem to be flushed as if the blush from his face has moved south.

"Do you always wear the mask?"

Bane goes stiff. Bruce knew it was going to be a hard thing to ask, and yet he knows he has to ask anyway.

"Always."

Bruce reaches up, resting his hands on either side of Bane's face. Bane's perfectly still, his breath seemingly held. It feels like a game of chicken, only Bruce doesn't want it to be, and all he can do is do his best to disarm the bomb that's been placed in front of him.

"I'd like to see you without it. I know it's something you prefer to keep on, but..."

He wants to see the face of the man he's sitting on. That's a factor.

But a bigger factor is Bane himself. Over time it's become more and more obvious to Bruce that Bane struggles with accepting affection, and the overall impression Bruce gets is that Bane considers himself, for lack of a better way to phrase it, _unlovable._

He isn't. Bruce could absolutely do whatever he wants with the mask _on,_ but he wants to make a point of showing Bane that he's willing to do it with the mask _off._ He can't imagine what kind of a mess Bane might have under there, but it doesn't matter anyway. Bruce has seen some _major_ scarring, and he's not going to be deterred by it.

Bane hesitates.

"It is not a pretty sight."

"I'd like to see anyway."

He doesn't say _I'm sure I've seen worse,_ even though he probably has. He doesn't say _I'm sure it's not that bad,_ either, because he doesn't know that for sure. Instead, he talks about what _he_ feels.

He can't speak for Bane, but he can speak for himself.

Bane reaches up and peels off his mask.

Bruce understands immediately why he wears it. There's puckered, long-healed scars on much of his face. There's one on his chin that looks comparatively natural, and several that run through his hairline. The most obvious ones, though, are prominent diamond shapes that run around his eyes, almost in the shape of a mask. They're large and distinct, which tells Bruce that the mask was never about letting him pass undetected without it.

"From the experiments?" He asks, reaching up to trace his thumb over one of the scars, and Bane nods. The shape of it makes sense for something that was meant to hold Bane's skull in place. Not an intentional injury, but simply a case of needing to be _absolutely sure_ Bane wouldn't move, and not caring about whether or not he was hurt

Bruce leans up, pressing a kiss to Bane's cheek, and Bane goes pink.

"I know I am not as... appealing as the women you would have shown interest in before..."

"I don't want to hear you talking down about yourself," Bruce says. He slides himself onto Bane's lap, becoming increasingly aware of just how large Bane is. His thighs are like tree trunks, and his lap is large enough that even Bruce—who is not a small man by any metric—can fit comfortably.

"Your tastes have always strayed towards the conventionally attractive," Bane points out, which makes Bruce wonder how much Bane's looked into him. Did Bane spend some of his time observing the women Bruce had hanging off his arm all that time ago in Gotham?

Apparently.

"I'm not sure which part of all this would have convinced you that I was only interested in someone who was _conventionally attractive,_ Bane," Bruce points out. He turns, letting his legs rest on either side of Bane's own, but is facing Bane directly for once. "I don't want a supermodel to dangle off my arm. I never did. What I care about most of all is up here." He reaches up, tapping Bane's temple as Bane wrinkles his nose. "But you are perfectly my type, just so you know."

Bane is. Bruce's tastes in men and women couldn't be more different, and Bane's pretty much the perfect example of that. With women, Bruce leans more traditional. With men... well, Bruce would much rather have someone like Bane. Someone big enough to make Bruce feel small. Strong enough to hold him up without a hint of exertion.

More or less Bane exactly, really.

He leans up, pressing a kiss to Bane's lips, and Bane hesitates for a moment before returning the kiss. One large arm wraps around Bruce, Bane's hand splaying across Bruce's lower back to keep him upright as he puts more and more attention—and force—into the kiss.

Bruce is damn near breathless by the time the kiss breaks. His lips feel almost bruised under the force, but that's a less pressing concern then the _literal_ pressing against his leg that's cropped up in the meanwhile.

Bane is not a small man in any regard, apparently.

It's also obvious to Bruce that Bane would be perfectly happy to sit there and just kiss all day, only Bruce certainly doesn't feel the same way. The kiss is nice—great, even—but it's just a kiss, and Bruce's libido, half asleep from his abuse of his body, is finally waking up in a big way.

He reaches down, wrapping his hands around Bane's cock, and makes a noise of surprise when his fingers barely meet. Bane is _big._ Really big. Big enough that Bruce's plans are temporarily derailed, because it's been _months_ since he had sex and Bane isn't going to fit without hours of prep.

They'll work up to it, he decides. Right then he has other enjoyable things to pay attention to, like the gorgeous way that Bane's reacting to his touch. His eyes have fluttered half closed, his mouth hanging partially open. His hands rest at his sides, rythmically clenching and unclenching as he struggles not to grab something.

He is _extremely_ sensitive, and one long stroke is enough to make Bane's entire body shudder.

"You don't jerk off, do you?"

"I rarely have the time," Bane rumbles, his voice strained as his eyes shudder closed. Bruce takes a moment to shift positions, slipping forward on Bane's lap to press his own cock—already _very_ hard just from the reaction he's getting—against Bane's own.

Bane is nothing if not a quick study. For all his hesitation, he realizes what Bruce has in mind immediately, reaching down to wrap his hand around the pair of them, giving a little squeeze.

Bane's grip is tigher than Bruce is used to, but that doesn't stop it from feeling good. Bruce leans forward, resting his forehead against Bane's chest, and lets himself just enjoy the gentle, practiced strokes of Bane's hand. Everything about the situation feels _right,_ and when Bane's free hand tips Bruce's head up to kiss him again, that feels that much more.

"We are going to make a mess," Bane says quietly, and Bruce laughs under his breath.

"We are. But you don't have to be so gentle, you know."

Bane's _Oh?_ promises things that Bruce is eager for him to deliver. A moment later, Bane releases hold of both of their cocks, and a second after that he simply scoops Bruce up like he weighs nothing, depositing him on the side of the pool back-down.

It isn't the most comfortable position, but it leaves Bruce at the right height to squeeze his thighs together. He doesn't _mean_ to comment on Bane's size—he wouldn't be surprised if Bane were sensitive about it—but he can't stop himself from pointing it out when he feels Bane's cock nudge against his thighs before pressing through, rubbing up against Bruce's cock and balls.

"Jesus, you're big."

Bane laughs, and after a few more noises of reassurances, finally gets to work.

Bruce has to help hold his legs together to keep the pressure up, because Bane is nothing if not strong. The force of him rutting against Bruce is enough to push Bruce along the stone, scraping his back in a way that's unpleasant and yet also making Bruce harder than he's been in a long while. It's the force of it, the fact that Bane is so strong and yet so easily unravelled. When Bane's hand reaches down, wrapping around Bruce's cock to jerk him in time with each thrust, the pressures all too much, and Bruce goes tipping over the edge before Bane can even finish, spilling all across his stomach with a moan that he swears the whole base must be able to hear.

Bane lasts longer—Bruce would like to credit it to enhanced stamina, but that's probably being overly charitable to himself—and when he does finish Bruce gets a perfect view of his expression as Bane leans over him, covering Bruce's entire body as he finishes across Bruce's own stomach.

In the afterglow, Bane looks so happy that it's all Bruce can think about. The sight of Bane, his expression soft, is enough to make every bit of tension ease right out of him.

Bane carefully picks him up, pulling him down into the water, and Bruce hisses as it hits his back. Definitely scraped up, but made infinitely better by the concerned noises Bane makes as he tends to Bruce, helping him clean up.

There are things, undeniably, which Bruce misses. Parts of his life he's not sure he'll ever get back. Parts of his life he's not sure he _deserves_ to get back. He's been through hell and back, had everything stripped away from him, and yet right then he feels at peace.

Bane is there, and Bane clearly cares for him, even if he's struggling, for once, with the words to say it. But even beyond Bane: Bruce has a new purpose. Or not even a new one, but an old one, one that fell by the wayside, buried under a thosuand unfortunate obligations, a thousand twisted up rivalries.

He can't do anything for Gotham any longer, but there are still people who need him. People he can help protect. And as Bane wraps his arms aorund Bruce, pulling Bruce into his lap and pressing a kiss to his forehead, Bruce lets himself be, for the first time since he was a child, at peace with himself.


End file.
